The Empire Builders' State of Change
by Tineyboppa
Summary: This is a crossover between the Christopher Bulis Doctor Who novel State of Change, and the William Stuart Long novel The Empire Builders, plus an extra character. The Doctor, Peri and Anita find themselves in colonial Sydney, in the tomb of Governor Fitzroy. But something is very wrong. The tomb walls depict diesel-driven ships and other disturbing anachronisms.
1. Prologue

Prologue

The vessel, enfolded within its private micro-universe, tumbled silently through the infinite grey void. It fell towards the place where matter and energy are one, where matter and energy are one, where the dimensions that defined the very structure of reality become blurred and meaningless things. At the heart of the grey void lay the vortex of hyperspace.

Then the vessel _changed._

Its artificial cusp of twisted time and space constricted, dividing into two unequal portions. The neck between the two shrank and disappeared, and they separated. The larger section vanished, dropping out of hyperspace and into reality once more. The smaller section fell on through the void alone, towards the vortex.

Within one of the compartments of the abandoned subsection, its single occupant laboured feverishly over a tangled mass of complex circuitry that littered the floor. Open service panels and conduits in the compartment's oddly patterned walls showed where cables and servo modules had been torn from their housings. The dim lightning flickered every few moments, causing the worker to glance quickly up at a monitor screen set into one wall, before returning to her task with renewed vigour. Her coldly attractive features were set and implacable, as though by sheer will power she could force the improvised control board she was assembling to function.

On the monitor screen, the image of the vortex expanded: a swirling maelstrom of blazing, impossible, eye-searing colours, shaping themselves into writhing streamers and eddies that could swallow a sun. Steadily, inexorably, the fascinating yet terrifying scene grew larger, filling and then overflowing the screen, until all that could be seen was a single dark rent in the boiling energy storms, gaping like a hungry mouth.

Then, with a sharp, exultant cry, she was finished. Her nimble fingers danced across the contacts on the improvised panel. On the monitor, the details of the vortex surface slowed their rate of expansion, then started to drift across the screen. The vessel's fall had become a safe orbit about the vortex.

Suntwist within her. It had been a close run thing, but she had survived, as a superior being always would. He thought he had left her for dead, but he would find out otherwise – to his cost. Her lips parted in a mirthless smile as she contemplated the sweetness of her revenge. Now, what would be the best way? Do to him what he had to her, of course. But she would be more thorough than he had been, naturally. He had assumed she was doomed and had left her. Such stupidity, such arrogance! When the time came, she would be able to actually see him suffer until the end, until she was certain that –

A warning light flashed amid the tangle of hastily assembled components and cables that webbed the floor. She frowned at this intrusion on her pleasant line of thought, and adjusted a control. The image on the monitor screen slipped aside as the camera turned to look forward. Over the churning, tormented limb of the vortex, silhouetted against the grey of the void, a dark speck had risen, swelling in size even as she watched, resolving itself into a perfect jet-black disc. Something else was in orbit about the vortex with her. In the _same _orbit, but travelling in the opposite direction…

Too late, she started to work the controls, trying to change course, trying to rise above the object that had become a pit of night hurtling towards her crippled vessel.

For one terrible moment, the monitor showed nothing but absolute and total blackness.

Then the hole in the void fell on along its endless orbit about the vortex. Alone.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter 1**

**Monday 7****th**** October 1985**

Today was the first day of term 4. We have a new Science teacher. Mr Callaghan never said he was leaving. I wonder what happened to him.

Our new teacher is Doctor Smith. I wonder what he is a doctor of. He is really weird. He dresses really strange. He looks like an explosion in a rainbow factory. He wore this red coat, with green patchwork, and yellow and pink lapels. He also wore this white shirt with question marks on the collar. He had a knitted brown waistcoat with a turquoise polka-dot cravat. His trousers were yellow and striped, and his shoes were a pair of green and black ankle boots with orange spats. And he wore a cat badge. What a weirdo!

Doctor Smith seems to have a volatile personality. Anytime someone spoke in class he really blew them up. He's nothing like Mr Callaghan. Mr Callaghan was always very nice. And he was cute! Doctor Smith is not cute! He has this curly dark blonde hair and he's not very good looking. But I suppose he's here to teach, not to look cute!

In the past, it has been the general aim of our class to effect a complete and utter annihilation of any teachings even remotely related to science. Although this primary aim has not changed, the means to obtain it has, and I'm sure this term will be no exception.

Last term, when we were doing Chemistry, Nicole suggested "Why not blow the place up?" This was invoked by Jody's "Let's see what happens when you mix these chemicals in extremely large quantities" approach. A new subtle and (dare I say it), devious method has been suggested with potentially more success. Essentially, this new system basically involves the undermining of Doctor Smith's basic scientific beliefs and his faith in scientific principles.

Nicole suggests we start in a small way, with the formation of the MacGregor Flat Earth Society. We shall see how this develops.

Everything proceeds as usual in English, Social Education (Soc. Ed.), Maths, P.E., French, History and Music.

Nicole has a crush on David Airey (the School Captain)! She hasn't got a hope! But then, she's always got a crush on someone.

I've been thinking about that movie I saw in the holidays – "Back to the Future". Wouldn't it be cool to be able to travel in time? I'm going to go to the library at lunch-time tomorrow to see if there are any books written about the scientific possibility of such a thing.

**Tuesday 8****th**** October 1985**

I went to the library at lunch time today and looked up "Time Travel". This is what I learned:

**Time travel** is the concept of moving between different points in time in a manner analogous to moving between different points in space. Time travel could hypothetically involve moving backward in time to a moment earlier than the starting point, or forward to the future of that point without the need for the traveler to experience the intervening period (at least not at the normal rate). Any technological device – whether fictional or hypothetical – that would be used to achieve time travel is commonly known as a **time machine**.

Although time travel has been a common plot device in science fiction since the late 19th century and the theories of special and general relativity allow methods for forms of one-way travel into the future via time dilation, it is currently unknown whether the laws of physics would allow time travel into the past. Such backward time travel would have the potential to introduce paradoxes related to causality, and a variety of hypotheses have been proposed to resolve them

Hmm… according to that, it may be possible to travel into the future via time dilation. But if you did that, it would be one-way. Still, time dilation sounds interesting. It is currently unknown whether the laws of physics would allow time travel into the past. Well, that's not saying it's impossible, just unknown.

The laws of physics – Doctor Smith said we are learning physics this term. I should ask him what he thinks about time travel. I think I'll be paying more than the usual attention in Science class this term.

I think it's going to be very interesting. Today we learned about Exploring displacement. We reviewed forces and energy definitions and identified displacement vs distance. Nicole got in Doctor Smith's bad books at the start of the lesson by asking him: "Sir, do you think the earth could be flat?" You should have seen the look he gave her! "Certainly not!" he exclaimed. Then he ranted and raved at her for the next ten minutes. It was quite funny to watch. He was both portentous and eloquent. Nicole was speechless. Despite an encouraging start, the Flat Earth Society was disbanded after class! I don't think Nicole will try that again!

**Wednesday 9****th**** October**

Today in Science we learned about Velocity. Weidentified velocity as displacement/time: v=s/t. We also performed velocity calculations from the displacement-time data.

This afternoon, after class, I asked Doctor Smith what he knew about Relativistic velocities. "Relativistic velocities?" asked Doctor Smith. "For example," I explained, "someone might take a trip away from the Earth and back at relativistic velocities, with the trip only lasting a few years according to the observer's own clocks, and return to find that thousands of years had passed on Earth."

Doctor Smith looked amazed. He said: "Well, A Relativistic speed is a speed which is a significant proportion of the speed of light. Therefore scientific analysis must take the consequences of special relativity into account. A relativistic particle is a subatomic particle moving at relativistic speed.

The boundary for when a particle becomes relativistic is difficult to define, but a particle can generally be said to be relativistic when Newtonian Mechanics no longer provide an accurate description which, within a margin of error of 1%, is 10% of the speed of light."

"So you think it is possible to Time travel to the future?" I asked.

"What do you think?" said Doctor Smith.

"From what I've read," I replied, "This form of "travel into the future" is theoretically allowed (and has been demonstrated at very small time scales) Using velocity-based time dilation under the theory of special relativity, for instance: Traveling at almost the speed of light to a distant star, then slowing down, turning around, and traveling at almost the speed of light back to Earth, or Using gravitational time dilation under the theory of general relativity, for instance: Residing inside of a hollow, high-mass object; Residing just outside of the event horizon of a black hole, or sufficiently near an object whose mass or density causes the gravitational time dilation near it to be larger than the time dilation factor on Earth."

"That's very interesting," said Doctor Smith. "You're on the right track with the black hole theory. Very impressive. Now I'd like to ask you something. Did you hear Mr Callaghan ever talk about anything besides schoolwork? What do you know about him?"

I was puzzled at the sudden change of subject. "All I know about him is that he is married with a child," I replied. "And he sometimes spoke about cricket."

"Ah, cricket," said Doctor Smith. "I used to play a bit of cricket. Do you know if any of your classmates saw Mr Callaghan during the holidays?"

"Not that I know of," I replied.

"Well, I'd like you to ask around, and if you hear anything, let me know," said Doctor Smith. "Would you do that for me please?"

"All right," I agreed.

What a strange thing to ask me to do! I think that there's more to this man than just being a Science teacher. I told Nicole and Jenny what he had said.

"I'll bet he's a private investigator, sent here undercover to find out what happened to Mr Callaghan," said Jenny.

I'm determined to get to know Doctor Smith better, not only to find out who he really is, but also to find out what he knows about time travel. I'm sure he knows more than he's letting on. I'm going to press him more about it tomorrow.

**Thursday 10****th**** October 1985**

In Science today we performed velocity calculations from displacement-time data. We represented velocity in displacement-time graphs. We established the concept of average vs instantaneous velocity.

It's all very basic. I'm more interested in learning about time dilation and black holes.

In the theory of relativity, **time dilation** is an actual difference of elapsed time between two events as measured by observers either moving relative to each other or differently situated from gravitational masses.

An accurate clock at rest with respect to one observer may be measured to tick at a different rate when compared to a second observer's own equally accurate clocks. This effect arises neither from technical aspects of the clocks nor from the fact that signals need time to propagate, but from the nature of spacetime itself.

On the other hand, Doctor Smith said I was on the right track with a black hole. But where am I going to find a black hole? I decided to press Doctor Smith about it after the lesson.

I asked him: "what did you mean yesterday when you said I was on the right track with a black hole with regard to time travel?"

"Well," he replied, "it's possible to draw power from the singularity of an artificial black hole."

"But how would you avoid falling into the singularity and being crushed or torn apart by the tidal forces?" I asked. "And what do you mean by _artificial _black hole?"

"But if you captured and placed the a nucleus of a black hole in an eternally dynamic equation against the mass of a planet and so that as long as the nucleus existed in this "balanced state", you could avoid being crushed or torn apart," Doctor Smith countered.

"But how could anyone do that?" I asked.

"Well, of course it's all theoretical," replied Doctor Smith.

"I think time dilation is more credible," I argued. "After all, it's based on Einstein's Theory of Relativity."

"Ah, yes, Einstein," replied Doctor Smith. "I remember him well."

"I beg your pardon?" I said.

"Oh! I mean I remember studying his theories," Doctor Smith corrected himself. "Er, by the way, did you get a chance to speak to any of your classmates about Mr Callaghan?"

"Yeah, but nobody knows anything," I replied. Now was the time to confront him about my suspicions.

"I know who you are, Doctor Smith," I said.

Doctor Smith looked nervous. "You do, do you?" he said. "Who am I then?"

"You're a private investigator, sent here to find out what happened to Mr Callaghan, aren't you?"

He sighed with relief. "You're very clever Anita," he replied. "You found me out."

"Well, I'd like to help you as much as I can," I said.

"Thankyou Anita," he said as I left the classroom.

At lunch time I was walking with Nicole and Jenny when we came upon Doctor Smith and Miss Brown (the new history teacher) sitting in the courtyard.

"Let's spy on them," whispered Nicole. "We might be able to find out more about the case, and if Miss Brown is a P.I. too."

So we crept around behind where they were sitting and crouched in the bushes.

"Doctor, have you worked out what might have happened to Brendan Callaghan?" asked Miss Brown.

"No," replied Doctor Smith. "I'm no closer to the solution than I was when we arrived. I haven't come across anything unusual. No temporal anomalies, no sign of alien intervention. I just don't get it."

The girls and I looked at each other in astonishment.

The pair stood up and walked away.

"Well, that was weird," said Nicole.

"Very Twilight Zone," said Jenny.

"I wonder what Doctor Smith was on about?" said Nicole.

"Well, I'm going find out," I said.

So now we have two mysteries. What happened to Mr Callaghan, and who is Doctor Smith? Well, I have gained his confidence to a degree, so I may be able to find out.

**Friday 11****th**** October **

I stayed behind after Science class again today. What Doctor Smith has been saying about time travel is confusing me.

I said to him: "I know you said yesterday that using a black hole for time travel is the most likely way, but I just don't see how that can be practical. I think the theory of travelling faster than the speed of light is more feasible."

"You are doubting me?" he blustered arrogantly. "A little gratitude wouldn't irretrievably damage my ego."

"I beg your pardon?" I said, confused.

"Here I am imparting some of my immeasurable knowledge on the subject," he replied dramatically, "and you are questioning me every step of the way. I thought you had potential, but I'm not so sure now."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Potential for what?"

"Anita, you are a very intelligent girl," he explained. "Your scientific mind could be developed, given the right tutelage. I would like to help you with that. If you let me."

"I would like that, Doctor Smith," I said. "I am really very grateful to you for sacrificing some of your free time to help me understand this. Please tell me what you mean by using a black hole."

"Well, if you could harness the nucleus of a black hole and connect it to a planet you could use the energy to power a time/space machine," he said.

"Do you really think that's possible?" I asked, incredulously.

"I know it is," he replied.

"How can you be so sure?" I asked.

He lowered his voice. "Because I've seen it happen!" he whispered. "I've experienced it myself."

"You mean you've travelled in time?" I whispered back.

"Many times!" he replied.

I just stared at him. How could he expect me to believe that?

"You don't believe me, do you?" he demanded.

"With all due respect, sir," I said. "You're bonkers."

"That's debatable," he replied. "If you want proof, meet me after school in the teacher's carpark."

"I'll think about it," I said, uneasily.

As I left the room, my mind was in a whirl. My head told me this man was mad. A time-machine? What if I met him after school and he turned out to be an axe-wielding, homicidal maniac? But something told me he wasn't dangerous. And what if he was telling the truth? If I stood him up I might be missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime.

I asked Nicole and Jenny what they thought about it.

"Are you crazy?" exclaimed Jenny. "He'll probably murder you!"

"It sounds like fun," said Nicole, enthusiastically. "I think you should go for it!"

"I think I will," I said. "But I promise I'll be careful."

Mum was used to me going shopping with my friends after school on Fridays, so she wouldn't miss me if I was home a bit late.

After school I made my way to the teachers' carpark. I could see Doctor Smith standing next to a blue Ford Laser. As I got closer I could see he was having an animated conversation with Miss Brown, who was sitting in the driver's seat. As I approached I overheard their conversation.

"I only hope she believes you," said Miss Brown.

"Well if she doesn't," said Doctor Smith, "I shall beat her into submission... with my charm."

Now I was worried. Was he talking about beating _me _into submission? Were they both murderers? I stopped and turned around, hoping they hadn't seen me.

"Anita!" called Doctor Smith. "Over here!"

I spun around.

"Oh, there you are!" I said, trying to sound cheerful.

"Hop in, Anita," said Doctor Smith, opening the back door.

Miss Brown drove out of the car park and up Wadley Street. She turned left, and left again, and drover across the bridge that went over the South-East Freeway. She turned right and drove around the back of Garden City Shopping Centre and then up a track into some bushland and stopped next to an electrical sub-station.

I started to panic. Now I knew they were going to kill me.

"You murder me you'll get thirty years!" I blurted out.

"Handful of heartbeats to a Time Lord!" said Doctor Smith, laughing.

"Doctor!" Miss Brown exclaimed. "You're scaring her! What are you talking about, Anita?"

"Well, you're obviously a couple of crooks, and you've driven me into this bushland to murder me!" I replied, my voice shaking.

"No, no, no," said Miss Brown. "You've got it all wrong! The Doctor just wanted to show you the TARDIS!"

"TARDIS?" I asked.

"Time And Relative Dimension In Space," explained Doctor Smith. "My time-machine, if you like. Come and have a look."

A large blue box, about 2 metres high and 1 metre wide stood next to the sub-station. A sign across the top of it said 'Police Box' and there was a blue light on the roof.

"That's your time-machine?" I said. "I doubt we'll all fit in it."

" External appearances can be deceptive," said Miss Brown.

There was a pair of doors on one side of the box and there were frosted glass windows all around the top. Doctor Smith drew a key on a length of black ribbon out of an inner pocket.

"Can we go somewhere and see the sights?" begged Miss Brown. "I mean _properly _mix with the people and such. Somewhere really old and classical."

Doctor Smith inserted the key in the door of the police box and smiled at her. "You exhibit your nation's renowned fascination with antiquity merely for its own sake. Has travelling with me not taught you yet, that time is relative and simply a question of point of view?"

"Maybe I'm simply not as jaded a traveller as you are, Doctor. I mean, what did you Time Lords build TARDISes for otherwise – and why keep all those different clothes in the wardrobe room? Anyway, can we try it?"

I was completely lost.

Doctor Smith looked for a moment at Miss Brown's intent and eager face.

"Ah, well, I remember when I too was young," said Doctor Smith. "So long ago."

He smiled suddenly, his face like an impish schoolboy. "Yes, I think we might at that." He opened the door of the police box.

I decided that things couldn't actually get any weirder than they already were and followed The Doctor and Miss Brown into the police box.

Suddenly things got even weirder.

The seeker followed the trail with senses that do not even have names.

The trail ran through the millennia and across the light centuries. Mostly there was no pattern to its meanderings, and the trail might suddenly double back on itself for no reason. Sometimes it formed a complicated loop through the higher dimensions before continuing. On a couple of occasions it actually branched into separate tracks and travelled parallel with itself before conjoining again.

None of this troubled the seeker. Time was irrelevant to it, and, as every sensation was a new one, 'tenacity' and 'patience' were simply experiences it had not encountered before. If any emotion could be applied to the seeker, then it might be said to be happy. By analogy, it might be likened to an extra-cosmic cat chasing a yarn of wool between the stars and through the ages, trying to catch the unravelling ball at the end.

Miss Brown and Doctor Smith stood by the TARDIS's main console, which sprouted like a high-tech hexagonal mushroom from the control room floor. Outside the doors were the heat and flies of Brisbane in 1985. Inside it was timeless. As Doctor Smith fussed over the controls, I looked around the spacious white, coolly lit room in amazement.

The room's irregularly curving walls were formed of many panels, patterned with vertical ranks of recessed circular mouldings, some of which glowed softly, occasionally broken by inset, Doric-style fluted columns. Scattered about the room was an odd mixture of furniture that, perhaps, indicated the Doctor's feelings for his favourite planet: a Sheraton chair, a Chippendale, a large Chinese pot, and a massive brass-bound sea chest. On a carved stand was a bust of Napoleon, whilst on its twin was an ormolu clock. The most brightly coloured object in the room was Doctor Smith's flamboyant coat, which hung by itself on a tall hatstand.

I whipped round in shock – and saw, instead of the police box doors through which, I reminded myself, I had _definitely _entered, two much bigger white doors made of whatever material the rest of the room was made of.

I dashed back through the doors. I'd never been literally agog before, agog with eyes popping and jaw juddering.

I turned back to point at the police box, which was still clearly a police box, and one that I could see all the way around. "I-I-I-I-I-," I stammered.

"That's five "I"s in one breath," said Doctor Smith. "— makes you sound a rather egotistical young lady."

"Hurry up!" called Miss Brown.

I went back through the doors. I just stood there, open-mouthed.

"Yes, I know," said Doctor Smith.

"What?" I asked.

"It's bigger inside than out," he replied. "So, where do you want to go?"

"What?" I asked, mystified.

"All of time and space awaits you," said Doctor Smith. "What would you like to see first?"

"I don't understand how you can do this," I said.

Miss Brown walked over to me. "The Doctor – that's his name, by the way, not Smith – is not human."

"What?" I exclaimed. "Now I know you're both crazy."

"The Doctor is a centuries-old Time Lord alien from the planet Gallifrey who travels in time and space in his TARDIS," said Miss Brown.

"Yeah, right," I said.

"So where do you want to go?" asked The Doctor.

"Well, I'd love to see what Brisbane was like when my ancestors arrived in 1870" I replied, not sure whether to believe this lunatic or not.

The Doctor beamed at Miss Brown. "The rule of Governor Colonel Samuel Wensley Blackall. He was was an Irish soldier and politician, who was the second Governor of Queensland from 1868 until he died in office in 1871. I'll just check to find the precise destination details." He turned his attention to the screen.

"Look, Doctor," said Miss Brown, "I'm going to take a shower, so take your time."

She turned to me. "Would you like to see more of the TARDIS while we're waiting?"

"Ok," I said.

Miss Brown made for the doorway leading to the interior of the time ship, then hesitated. "Say, Doctor. We are going to try to blend in with the locals, right?"

"Of course. That's the main point of the exercise."

"So, you won't be wearing your coat?"

The Doctor gazed almost regretfully at the gaudy item. "Unfortunately, it wouldn't match the local styles."

Miss Brown beamed. "That's great, Doctor. I can't wait to see you in a top hat and tails!"

"_Here…found it. _Me found it! What you want is here!"

The voice was strange and harsh. It boomed as though projected by some giant speaker from a great distance, and the pitch and inflection varied between words, suggesting the language used was not simply unfamiliar to the speaker, but that speech itself was a novelty. The words might have been pieced together from a conversation overheard, and now repeated without the user quite being sure of their precise meanings.

"Good, well done," said another voice. "Show me where it is located." These words were commanding, cool and clear, and without any uncertainty. "Yes, I see. Now, I am going to tell you what to do next…"

Towelling herself off after her brief shower, Miss Brown was only mildly surprised to find her en suite bathroom now had a second door. Cautiously passing through it, she found herself by the side of the TARDIS's swimming pool. She went back into her bedroom where she had left me.

"Would you like to see the swimming pool?" she asked me.

"Swimming pool?" I asked, astounded.

"Yes_,"_ replied Miss Brown.

"Ok," I said. She led me through her en suite to the swimming pool.

"I'm fairly certain that door wasn't there this morning," said Miss Brown. "I'm even more certain that the last time I used the pool, it was some way down the TARDIS's main corridor. Perhaps if we go to check, we'll find it still is down the corridor. After all, there are, as far as I know, no rules about the behaviour of swimming pools in police telephone boxes. I wonder if the Doctor arranged this little trick of trans-dimensional engineering himself, or if some automatic system of the TARDIS noted my regular use of the pool, and rearranged things to be more convenient for me."

She shrugged. "I'll find out later; meanwhile, a cold plunge in an appealing idea. Want to join me?"

"Ok," I replied.

She took me back to her bedroom and found me a swimsuit to change into. She left me to get changed. After I changed I went back to the swimming pool.

We walked around the poolside to the high diving board. I looked at the décor of the pool room. I admired the acres of richly veined marble flooring, the massive, classically styled columns that lined the pool itself and the great hanging baskets that threw out sprays of colourful blooms, or trailed long, exotic tendrils in the water. Of course, the classification of the plants were beyond me. Miss Brown saw me looking around the room.

"Just one more item the Doctor had picked up on his travels, I suppose," said Miss Brown. "Curiously, the Doctor never uses the pool, as far as I can tell. Perhaps, in some former incarnation, he was a keen swimmer, but it no longer appealed to his current personality. Perhaps the TARDIS is patiently maintaining the room for that day when its owner will once more require its facilities. How long will that be, I wonder?"

I just stared at her blankly. "Incarnation?" I asked.

"As a Time Lord, the Doctor has the ability to regenerate his body when near death," explained Miss Brown. "The **regeneration **process allows a Time Lord who is old or mortally wounded to undergo a transformation into a new physical form and a somewhat different personality. I saw it happen last time he regenerated. It was fascinating."

Beside the foot of the diving board steps was a small control panel mounted on a polished metal pillar. Miss Brown made a careful adjustment to one of the controls, then climbed the steps three at a time, in long, effortless strides, almost bouncing to the top board.

"Adjustable gravity control," explained Miss Brown.

Miss Brown stepped to the end of the board, flexed her knees and thrust upwards, rising impressively in the low gravity. Her second spring was higher still, and the third took her nearly to the barrel-vaulted roof of the pool, which was decorated with a vividly coloured pastoral fresco. The style was somewhat reminiscent of pictures I have seen of the Sistine Chapel in Rome.

Miss Brown tucked her body and tumbled backwards, falling lazily out of the false sky of the fresco and down towards the sparkling waters of the pool.

In the control room, the Doctor entered the final set of co-ordinates into the navigation system and engaged the hyperdimensional drive.

"All ready," announced the slow, booming voice. "But hard to see to read only what you want."

"Well, read more around it if you have to," the commanding voice insisted.

"Read more – how much?"

"Read it all if you have to, but do it now!"

"Understand. Reading all…"

There was a long pause.

A pulsating, wheezing sound grew in volume, reverberating across the bushland and disturbing the wild birds once again. The incongruous telephone box faded into nothingness, like morning mist touched by the sun.

"Why is it taking so long? Show me what you're reading. No! Not all of that as well! I meant just the –"

"Not want all? Said you did want all."

"Not that! Have you no sense of _proportion, _you fool? Only read what you must! Never mind, do it _now!"_

"But have read more now. What to do with it? And tell what is "proportion"? What is "fool"?"

The water in the pool surged up in a great wave and engulfed Miss Brown as she was completing her third somersault. She disappeared in a foaming, roaring confusion of bubbles and streaming shreds of pool plants. The pool's large double doors burst open under the pressure, and Miss Brown and I and the contents of the pool poured out into the corridor.

My flailing hands caught hold of the rim of one of the circular wall mouldings, and I clung on desperately as a few hundred cubic metres of water rushed past me, sucking the breath from my lungs and tearing at each strand of my hair as it tried to peel me from my anchorage.

Gradually, the flow subsided, receding along the curve of the dimly lit corridor.

I slithered down the wall with the falling water level, coughing and drawing in rasping lungfuls of air, to finally slump in ankle-deep water on the floor. For a moment I was still, then grimly levering myself upright and pulling a sodden plant frond off my face, I drew in a deep breath.

"Doctor! Miss Brown!" I hollered. "What the heck is going –"

Lights flickered and the corridor pitched under me. For a moment gravity failed, and I bounced off the opposite wall amid a shower of weightless water droplets. Then I was plucked out of the air and dropped heavily to the floor of the corridor again. I scrabbled to the side was and braced myself into the angle, leaning to keep upright. 'Down' seemed to have changed direction and now lay nearer the end of the corridor than below it.

I was drawing in another breath to give vent to my feelings once more, when there was a rush and boom of water from the 'top' of the corridor as a foaming wave broke around the curve and bore down on me. The contents of the pool had returned. I grabbed the edge of the wall moulding again.

"Oh …" The rest was lost in the roar of the water.

The control room pitched and tossed like a ship in a hurricane.

The Doctor clung to the control console, scanning the madly flickering readings and warning lights and stabbing at buttons. Furnishings slithered across the floor, and the hatstand carrying his coat toppled gracelessly over. From somewhere outside the TARDIS came a howling and moaning, as though the craft were being buffeted by a great wind.

A torrent of water poured in through the doorway and spread out into a shallow pool, depositing a sodden Miss Brown, several plant fronds and a bedraggled me on the floor. I rolled and slithered against the wall and grabbed the heavy sea-chest for support. "What's happening?" I yelled over the noise, fear adding a shrill edge to my voice.

"Something's not right," said The Doctor.

"Do you mean the TARDIS is malfunctioning again?" asked Miss Brown.

"Malfunctioning?" exclaimed The Doctor. "Malfunctioning? _**MALFUNCTIONING!?**_ After all the work I've done on it!?"

"Well, I only asked a simple question!" said Miss Brown.

"Indeed you did, and it was the _wrong_ question!" said The Doctor. "We seem to be caught on the edge of a massive distortion in hyperspace. An interdimensional energy flux tube has opened up, and we appear to be travelling along it."

"Can't we break free?" I asked.

"I _am_ trying," the Doctor responded tersely. "Unfortunately, the energy is of a most peculiar form. It seems to be interfering with the controls, somewhat. It would be rather unwise to try anything dramatic at this moment."

"So we'll just have to sit it out, huh?" asked Miss Brown.

"Probably, probably…" The Doctor's gaze appeared to fix on the displays.

"Don't kid me, Doctor, tell it like it is," said Miss Brown.

"The TARDIS's link with the Eye of Harmony has been broken, and I'm having to use reserve power to maintain the force field. The flux tube is also draining power from the systems."

"Eye of Harmony?" I enquired.

"The **Eye of Harmony** is an artificial black hole created by the Time Lords to provide energy for their home world of Gallifrey and their time travel technology," supplied Miss Brown.

"So, how long will the reserve power last?" I asked.

There was a crackling noise and electric blue sparks danced briefly across the console, causing the Doctor to jerk his hands off the controls. The room lights flickered and dimmed rapidly to a dull red glow. The hearbeat-like rise and fall of the time rotor visibly slowed. I could see the Doctor's face illuminated by the ghostly glow of the control panel lights – which were flickering and dying too.

"Not long, as a matter of fact," the Doctor replied, with slightly strained understatement.

"Didn't you work out some sort of new emergency system after the last time we had power trouble?" asked Miss Brown.

The Doctor was becoming impatient. "Of course I did," he snapped. There was an awkward pause.

"And?" asked Miss Brown.

"A stand-by mass-converter is activated and begins transforming spare shell material into energy." The Doctor scowled in annoyance. "It appears, however, that the automatic trigger has failed."

"Can't you start it manually?" I asked.

"The converter requires a certain power input to energize it before it can reach a self-sustaining output level. Unfortunately, we no longer have enough power left to initiate this process."

"Oh, terrific!" Miss Brown exclaimed bleakly.

One by one, the lights were going out. The time rotor ground slower.

"I can sense the ship's systems fading around me, leaving us exposed to the elemental forces outside," said Miss Brown. "I've experienced a power loss in the TARDIS once before, which forced us to go to Varos – an unpleasant memory – but this is far worse. It feels almost as though the ship is dying."

The air felt chill and I was suddenly aware of being wet and semi-naked and shivering in the encroaching darkness. I bit my lip against my rising fear, and said nothing in case my voice should give me away.

Then I felt Miss Brown's arm around my shoulders, and the Doctor draped in coat over both of our shoulders. We gratefully pulled it tight around us. The Doctor sat down at our side, bracing himself against the wall to counter the motion of the ship. At least I was not alone.

"How long can we last after all the power's gone?" I asked simply, forcing my voice to stay level.

To my surprise, the Doctor laughed. "My dear Anita, we aren't finished yet. You ask about time inside a time machine, where it does not behave in familiar ways. Time and energy are far more freely interchangeable here, so when there i e…"

His words slurred and deepened to inaudibility.

The last lights faded out on the console.

The time rotor ground to a halt.

A water droplet sluggishly fell off the end a strand of hair plastered across Miss Brown's brow – and slowed to a stop in mid air.

"Tell what is "proportion"? Tell what means "fool"? Why you no speak to me now?" There was no answer.


	3. Chapter Two

CHAPTER II

Reaching his cabin – one of a dozen in the after part of the _Copenhagen_'s lower gun deck – Samuel Gibbs stripped off his tight-fitting full dress coat and empty sword belt and flung himself down on the lower berth, releasing his breath in a long, pent-up sigh.

Lieutenant Robert Fleming, his official escort, returned his own sword to its scabbard and came to stand, arms akimbo, looking down at him, an expression of mingled exasperation and bewilderment on his homely face.

"Have you gone completely out of your mind, Samuel?" he demanded. "Not content with sending one of the leading Q.C.'s in the country packing, you've as good as scuppered your chances by refusing to cross-examine any of the witnesses! In heaven's name, why?" His heated words met with no response, and he went on, in a more placatory tone, "Poor young Cantwell did his best for you. And that pathetic little apology for a seaman, Bowman, was ready to lie down and die for you, if you'd given him half a chance. But you didn't, did you? And you let that sour old swine Lane blackguard you without so much as a challenge! To claim that you were reeking of spirits – damn it, man, why did you let him get away with that? And he said it twice!"

"Well, it happened to be true," Samuel Gibbs returned glumly.

"True? You mean you _were_ drunk?"

"No, I was not drunk. But I _was_ reeking of spirits when I barged into him in the passageway." Samuel hesitated, eyeing his companion uncertainly, the need to unburden himself to someone becoming suddenly overwhelming. He had kept silent for so long, kept his own counsel, resisting the overtures of friendship and sympathy Rob Fleming had been so generously offering since the arrest and their enforced intimacy. Finally, coming to a decision, he said tensely, "Will you swear to keep it to yourself, Rob, if I tell you what happened?"

"Yes, of course I will. You have my word." Fleming unbuckled his sword belt and came to seat himself on the end of the narrow bunk. "You've clammed up like the proverbial oyster all the time I've been acting as your escort. Even when you ran out on me, you wouldn't tell me why, would you?"

"I couldn't. I still can't."

"All right, that's over and finished now. It might be a help if you talk about things, Samuel. And it won't go any further … you can rely on me, I promise you. For goodness' sake, I don't want to stand by and watch you wreck you career, without at least trying to help." Fleming spoke earnestly, and Samuel warmed to him. No one could help, he had long since recognized; his naval career had been in jeopardy from the moment he had first set eyes on Grace Ferrier, and there was nothing he could do now to save himself.

"Carry on, then," Rob Fleming prompted. "Tell me why you were reeking with spirits, as Lane testified, but yet you weren't drunk."

"Well, James Ferrier had just thrown most of a decanter of brandy over me, and as you know, brandy stinks to high heaven. That's why I reeked off the stuff."

"Good grief!" Fleming was visibly taken aback, but he recovered himself quickly. "You'll state that in your defence, I presume? Tomorrow, when you have the chance to answer the charges?"

"No." Samuel's denial was emphatic. "I can't."

"Why not, for goodness' sake?"

"For one reason, because it would be my word against James' – and James is dead. There were no witnesses, apart from Lane. And he wasn't exaggerating when he said he heard us going at it hammer and tongs. We had a blazing, ghastly row – I can't tell you what it was about, because it was personal and I'm not proud of it. And I provoked him. I … oh, the devil, I _had_ to! He hadn't been on deck for twenty-four hours, he didn't know the sort of weather we'd run into, and he refused to give me permission to take in sail. Archie Rayburn had tried to get his permission as well, and we – our ship was heading for disaster! You heard Amos Cantwell's evidence, so I needn't spell it out. Amos was not exaggerating, either."

Samuel went into details, his voice flat and devoid of expression while, against his will, the scene with James Ferrier flashed vividly and sickeningly into his mind, as real as ever, despite his efforts to obliterate it from his memory.

James Ferrier had come on board, after spending the night ashore with his wife. He had been morose and ill-tempered, and – save when it was necessary and in the presence of others – Samuel had been at pains to avoid him, as the sloop butted her way down-Channel. But then, following a savage burst of rage over a comparatively trivial matter, the captain had publicly bawled out Archibald Rayburn and the whole of the afternoon watch and retired to his cabin. He had not been seen on deck for twenty-four hours after that, yet Samuel had known – because Rayburn had told him – that James Ferrier was drinking himself into a paralytic state, quite oblivious of the fact that the _Lancer _had run into a force-ten gale, in dangerous proximity to the Irish coast.

He had had to go below, Samuel recalled wearily, when Rayburn had failed to persuade their captain to see reason, but … he had not anticipated the reception Ferrier had accorded him. The captain had been beside himself , crazed with bitterness, flinging accusations at him, not all of which were true. Samuel had guessed, to his dismay, that Grace had told her husband that she was leaving him, that their marriage was at an end and that she intended to take the child with her.

Samuel drew in his breath sharply, as the memories came flooding back and he heard James Ferrier's voice, as if it were coming from beside him.

"You miserable, treacherous young swine! You betrayed my friendship by stealing my wife! Not content with that, you foisted your bastard on me, let me believe he was my son! But Grace's told me the truth at last – I forced her to tell me, damn your soul! Do you think I care if this blasted ship goes down? I've nothing to live for any more, and I hope to God you go down with her …."

It had gone on and on; he had tried to shut his ears to it, sought vainly to deny that the boy was his or that he had ever asked Grace to break up their marriage, or indeed that any immoral behaviour had even taken place, but James had shouted him down. "I'll take in sail when _I _decide it's necessary, Mr. Gibbs – and the devil take you for the vile lecher that you are!"

Rob Fleming's voice broke into his thoughts, and, realizing that he must have fallen silent, Samuel said hoarsely, "What did you say?"

"I said that you _must _refute the charge of drunkenness when you go back to the court tomorrow, Samuel," Fleming told him vehemently. "It's your only hope! Even if you have to admit that it was Ferrier who had been drinking himself under the table, you've got to say so. For the Lord's sake, man, it was his fault the _Lancer _went down, not yours."

"I was responsible, Rob," Samuel reminded him. "I'd taken command, and I'm on trial for losing her. And besides –" He broke off, reluctant – despite Rob's promise – to tell him the whole truth. But Fleming persisted, warning him of the consequences and urging him to try to save his career.

"They'll throw you out of the service, Samuel. They'll have no option, if you're proved guilty. Over a hundred officers and men lost their lives, don't forget."

"As if I could forget," Samuel retorted, with harsh bitterness. "Dear heaven, don't you think they're on my conscience and always will be, as long as I live?"

"I'm sorry – that was tactless," Fleming apologized. "But even so, Samuel, you've got to think for yourself. At least try to convince the court that you weren't drunk, and that by relieving Ferrier of the command you did all in your power to save the ship and those lives. It can't hurt Ferrier now. Samuel –" Rob Fleming caught at Samuel's arm, forcing him to meet his gaze. "You'll be on oath – tell them the truth!"

It was no use arguing, Samuel thought, suddenly weary of the whole sorry business. He had brought it on himself by befriending Grace – and he neither hoped nor wanted to escape blame for what had happened.

"If I do tell the truth, Rob," he answered, his voice not steady, "I should have to admit that I took over command by laying my captain out and locking him in his cabin. Which, I fear, could lay me open to a charge of mutiny."

"Oh, my goodness! Did you really do that?" His admission had taken the wind out of Rob Fleming's sails. The younger man regarded him shocked disbelief; but eventually, seemingly realizing that what he had said was indeed the truth, Rob got to his feet.

"I can understand why you did not want Sir David Murchison to advise you," he managed at last. "But Lane didn't hear anything – he would have testified to it, if he had. Did anyone else know?"

"I told Archie Rayburn. And James Ferrier's steward – I had to warn him. He knew James had been drinking, of course … he couldn't fail to. But-" Samuel sighed. "He was a good man, with fifteen years' service and a leading rate. Symons, his name was, poor devil. I gave him the key and posted him in the passageway, outside the cabin."

Rob frowned, digesting this information. "Did Symons let the captain out, then, when the fire started?"

"Yes," Samuel confirmed shortly. He was on dangerous ground now, he was aware, and he lapsed into a repressive silence, calculated to discourage further questions. Neither the prosecuting officer nor any member of the court had, as yet, sought to ascertain the cause of the fire or demanded to know precisely where and how it had been started, but … His lips tightened. Undoubtedly they would, if he were to give evidence on oath. He glanced at Rob Fleming, wondering whether he had said too much and thus enabled him to draw his own conclusions. But if he had, Rob was keeping his own counsel, and Samuel breathed a relieved sigh.

Symons had reported the fire, but he had done so discreetly, being the kind of man he was … _had been_!

"The captain must have knocked over his table lamp, sir," he had told Samuel in the passageway, "and the fire had taken quite a hold before I smelled the smoke. He's taken no harm, the captain hasn't, and I shifted him into Lieutenant Rayburn's cabin, where he's sleeping as peaceful as you please. But we'll need a fire party quick and lively, sir, if we're to stop it spreading."

There had been no way to tell whether James Ferrier, finding himself locked in, might have flung the lamp down deliberately, but Symon's eyes had held more than a hint of doubt, and Samuel was conscious of a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach as he recalled how his captain had erupted in fury, when he had told him that he was taking over the command. The poor fellow could hardly stand, though, and his resistance had been short-lived, settled by a clenched fist to the jaw.

Which, beyond any shadow of doubt, amounted to an act of mutiny on his part … Samuel glanced again at Rob Fleming, who said explosively, breaking the silence, "Lord, Samuel, you were every kind of fool to take over command in the – the way you did!"

"Yes," Samuel conceded, again taking the wind from Rob's sails. "I know that only too well. But at the time I – well, I could not see any other way of doing it." And, he thought wretchedly, with James Ferrier fighting mad, there _had_ been no other way. "I had to relieve the ship of the canvas she was carrying. As it turned out, I was too late."

But it had been a near run thing, he knew, memory returning. They had come within an ace of saving the little sloop from her tragic fate. Granted another hour – even another half hour – it might have been possible, but James Ferrier had come on deck and given the order to abandon her. He was the captain, and his order had been obeyed without question by the ship's company. Deprived of her crew, the _Lancer _was doomed, and the boats, hastily lowered into the seething, storm-wracked sea, had foundered, one after another, shattered and swamped by the mountainous breakers.

"I was too late," Samuel repeated, more to himself than to Rob, "And a hundred and eleven men lost their lives. Can't you see why I've no defence to offer?"

.


	4. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER III**

Two o'clock was striking from a nearby church tower when Samuel, in civilian dress, stepped ashore at the sally port, the landing place for boats from the fleet anchorage. He took a constrained leave of Rob Fleming, offered his thanks but did not wait to watch the _Copenhagen_'s boat pull away, aware that, from the sternsheets, both Rob and the boat's midshipman were staring at him.

He ascended the stone steps briskly – those same steps that Nelson had used on his way to H.M.S. _Victory_ and Trafalgar – experiencing a pang as he did so, with the realization that, in future, they would be barred to him.

Captain Broome had sent a note, before leaving the flagship, inviting him to dine in private that evening in town, but although he had thrust the note into his pocket, Samuel knew that he could not accept the invitation. It was best to make a clean break; he would try to see Grace, then-

A voice, crisp and authoritative, called him by name, Samuel came to a halt, to see that a tall, well-dressed gentleman, whom he did not at first recognize, had descended from a close carriage drawn up on the far side of the sally-port bridge. The stranger was, like his father, of unmistakably military bearing, but he had a gaunt, cadaverous face and walked with a pronounced limp – a man not in robust health, yet one who had not lost the habit of command. He did not look like a journalist, but … Samuel frowned, recalling that he had observed this same man in court, seated in the row of chairs occupied mainly by the press. Instinctively he made to avoid an encounter, mumbling an apology, but the stranger called out to him to wait.

Drawing level, the man said quietly, "Mr Gibbs, I can understand your reluctance to hold converse with one who is unknown to you, after the ordeal you have endured so recently. I was in court throughout your trial."

"I am at a loss to imagine of what interest my trial could have been to you, sir," Samuel countered stiffly.

"Oh, it was of interest," the tall stranger assured him. He gestured to the waiting carriage with the gold-headed cane he carried. "If you will join me, I should like to speak to you, and I will, of course, drive you to wherever is your destination. What I have to say to you is of some importance, and part, at least, may well be to your advantage."

Samuel held his ground, still perplexed and reluctant to accede to the unexpected invitation. "Forgive me, sir," he began, "but you have the advantage of me. That is-"

The stranger smiled. "Mr Gibbs, permit me to introduce myself. I am Grace Ferrier's father. My name is Hunter, James Hunter, late of the East India Company's Political Service and now invalided, with the rank of major."

Grace's _father_? Samuel stared incredulously into the pale, high-boned face, seeking a likeness and finding a hint of it in the green, expressive eyes and the engaging smile. Grace, he recalled, had mentioned her father on several occasions. She had said that he and her mother had survived the long siege of Lucknow and – yes, that her father had been severely wounded and had taken retirement. Numbly he let Major Hunter lead him to the carriage and usher him into its dark interior. The coachman whipped up his horses, and the heavy vehicle moved away from the curb.

"I was one of those your naval brigade helped to bring out of Lucknow," Hunter volunteered. "So was my dear wife. I came out on a stretcher, so that I never personally made your acquaintance, Mr Gibbs. But I know the debt we of the garrison owed you and the other brave men under Sir Colin Campbell's command." He sighed and then went on gravely, "I also know the perhaps much greater debt my daughter owes you."

"Sir, I-" Flushed and ill at ease, Samuel attempted to deny it, but the older man motioned him to silence.

"Listen, I beg you. Grace has told me everything. She is heartbroken by the turn events have taken and by the sacrifice you have made – that is why I have been present throughout your trial. Frankly, I did not believe her when she confided to me what you intended to do, but … I have seen what it has cost you to keep the promise you made to her." With an abrupt change of tone, Major Hunter added harshly, "It was, of course, my son-in-law – your commander, James Ferrier – who was intoxicated and incapable, wasn't it? No-" he interrupted, as Samuel again attempted to protest. "Hear me out, Gibbs. I know what a great friend you've been to Grace and how James misunderstood your friendship. Grace has told me."

Had she, Samuel wondered dully – had she told her father that she had contemplated leaving her husband because of his violent behaviour toward her and her child, but that Samuel had urged her to stay with him? Had she told him about their last meeting and the recriminations she had heaped on his head, when he had been driven to confess how James Ferrier's last hours were spent?

"_It was your doing, Samuel … you drove him over the edge. Your doing and mine, because our friendship made him suspicious."_

She had wept, Samuel remembered, bitter, distraught, and ready to reject him until he had given her the promise she had wanted. He stifled a sigh, making an effort to listen to what her father was saying to him.

"My daughter," Major Hunter stated, his tone one that brooked no argument, "will not see or communicate with you again, Samuel. She has asked me to tell you that. She feels and feels very strongly that this is the price she must pay for her – well, let us call it indiscretion, shall we? I hesitate to use a stronger word."

"But, sir-" Sick with dismay, Samuel was moved to voice his dissent. "We were just friends. We – that is Grace is like a sister to me. Believe me, sir, I-"

It was as if he had not spoken. Ignoring his protest, Hunter said sternly, "Grace and her child – my grandson – will leave for my residence this afternoon. You have made a very considerable sacrifice, Mr Gibbs, as a result of which Grace's late husband is left with his honour intact, Grace has his pension, and you yourself have nothing. They have even ordered that your Victoria Cross be forfeit, haven't they? You have paid and paid very dearly for your indiscretion, and as I told you earlier, my daughter _is _in your debt, and I should like, if I can, to make reparation to you."

There was a brief silence, and then, with another quick change of tone, Major Hunter observed, "I have interests in New Zealand, Mr Gibbs. I own land near Wellington, purchased through the New Zealand Company. I should be willing to make the deeds over to you, on the condition that you will go out there as soon as you can book a passage – and I will defray the cost of your passage. Are you willing to accept my offer?"

Like his own father, Samuel thought bitterly, Grace's father was also seeking to dispatch him to the colonies … even to pay his fare. He reddened and shook his head. "I thank you, no, sir. But I should like to see Grace … to hear from her own lips that she wishes to have no more to do with me. Sir, I-"

"That is impossible," Hunter said with finality. "But she entrusted me with a note for you. Perhaps you had better read it."

The note was brief – a mere two lines – and Samuel's heart sank as he read it: "_Samuel," _it stated, "_I have decided that it will be best for us both if we do not meet again. I am going to my parents' house with my son." _The signature was simply "Grace."

"I have assured my daughter that her wishes will be respected," Major Hunter said. "You will not be admitted if you attempt to call on her, and we shall, in any case, be leaving here this afternoon."

Could it really be happening, Samuel wondered; could it be true? Had Grace's friendship been a transient thing, to be discarded and forgotten, after all they had helped each other? He looked up to meet her father's gaze and read into it the same finality as his words – and Grace's note – had expressed. Grasping at the last shreds of his composure, he managed somehow to contain himself and speak with dignity.

"Then there's no more to be said, sir, is there? Save to ask you to convey my respects to your daughter and – and assure her that I will bow to her wishes. I … if you please, sir, be so good as to set me down here."

"Very well." Major Hunter did not attempt to detain him, but offered his hand and added, with evident sincerity, "I am sorry that I had to bring you such unwelcome tidings, my dear young man. And I am also sorry that you feel you must refuse my offer of the land in New Zealand. But, if you should change your mind-" He took a calling card from his pocket and scribbled a few words on it, in pencil. "This is the address of my man of affairs. Contact him if, on reflection, you are willing to reconsider the offer. Needless to say, I hope you will."

Samuel took both the card and the offered hand, keeping a firm rein on his temper. The carriage drew up to the curb, and Grace's father leaned across to open the door and permit him to alight. They had been driving along the waterfront, in the opposite direction from the lodgings Grace had occupied when her husband was alive, and the carriage, Samuel saw, was turning around. Major Hunter, it seemed, was going to pick up his daughter. He would take her away from Portsmouth, to wherever he and his wife were living – take the child too, and … Samuel started to walk blindly away, numb with despair, realizing suddenly that he was alone, with no purpose in life and no plans for the future. Until this moment, he had planned to seek employment – any employment that would enable him to keep a wife and child – and, in the fullness of time, when the period of her mourning came to an end, to seek out Grace and ask her to wed him. But now … Shoulders hunched, Samuel moved on, his throat tight.

A little knot of men, crowding the pavement, blocked his way. He was about to skirt them by stepping into the road when a hand-written poster, displayed prominently outside the door of a public house, the Bedford-in-Chase, caught his eye. This was, he knew, a popular rendezvous for the commanders of newly commissioned ships to recruit their crews; but today, it appeared, the army had occupied it for the same purpose, for the poster proclaimed

RECRUITING FOR SERVICE IN AUSTRALIA!

HER MAJESTY'S 40TH REGIMENT OF FOOT

DRAFT LEAVING SOON – INQUIRE WITHIN.

SERVE YOUR COUNTRY AND SEE THE WORLD.

Struck by the uncanny coincidence, Samuel halted and read the poster again, and the men on the pavement eyed him with curiosity, evidently taking him for an officer. One of them said, jerking his head to the rear of the little group, "Yer carriage is waitin', sir – not thinkin' o' enlistin', was yer?"

Enlisting in the army had been the last thing he had considered, but … The carriage _had _stopped, as his informant had said, fifty or sixty yards down the road, and Grace's father was alighting from it, Samuel saw, leaning on his cane and watching him with as much interest as were the would-be recruits gathered about the door of the Bedford-in-Chase. The devil take it, he told himself, recklessly, what had he to lose? Major Hunter wanted him to exile himself in New Zealand, and his own father had suggested Australia as his future destination. And … Grace, it seemed, never wanted to set eyes on him again. He was accustomed to a service life; perhaps that was all he was suited for, all he knew. Perhaps-

A scarlet-uniformed recruiting sergeant opened the inn door – a stout, fine-looking man, with medals for the Afghan and Gwalior campaigns pinned to his tunic.

"Come in, my lucky lads!" he exclaimed, holding the door wide. "You'll not take a better step in your young lives, and you'll not find a better regiment than the Excellers in the whole o' the British Army – or a better station than Australia! Sign on today and you'll be boarding the troopship in a few weeks' time, for a voyage halfway around the world, with adventure at the end of it. _And _ good pay and conditions, with the chance to serve your country. Right, who's first, eh?"

The others hung back. Samuel glanced to where Major Hunter was standing and then stepped forward, his mind made up.

After a brief but searching inspection, the old sergeant nodded and led the way inside, motioning him to follow.

"It takes all sorts," he observed philosophically. "Creditors pressing you, are they?"

It was, Samuel reflected cynically, as good an excuse as any that he could devise on the spur of the moment.

"You could say that, Sergeant," he answered quietly. "Certainly I want to get away from England."

"Then you've come to the right place," the sergeant told him, frowning as he again subjected Samuel to a careful scrutiny.

"Well, you look fit enough – you'll have no trouble passing the doctor. Not on the run from Her Majesty's Navy, are you?"

"No, Sergeant," Samuel assured him. "I'm not."

The old sergeant grunted. "All right, you lads," he said, raising his voice as the other men came crowding it. "Into line there! That's the style … two and two."

A trifle sheepishly, the man who had sought to mock him took his place at Samuel's side.

"Name of Burnaby," he offered. "Tom Burnaby. An' I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn."

He would have to assume a name that was not his own, Samuel realized, in sudden panic – his father would take it very much amiss if he used the family surname. The recruiting sergeant seated himself at a table beside a grey-haired clerk and reached for a quill.

"Now, then," he invited, "your full name, _if_ you please."

After a moment's hesitation, Samuel answered him.

"Shannon, sir – Samuel Shannon."

The sergeant's pen spluttered as he filled in the name.

Grace had a visitor, with whom she was drinking tea, when Major Hunter returned to her lodgings in Melville Road. For no reason that he could have explained, James Hunter was more than a little shocked when the visitor rose, bowing in response to his hostess's introduction, and he recognized him as the lieutenant of marines, Thomas Lane, one of the witnesses at Gibbs's court martial.

"Mr Lane," Grace told him, with a hint of asperity, "came to tell me the result of Samuel Gibbs's trial, Papa. And as you had not seen fit to do so, I was grateful to him." She expressed no regrets but, turning her smile with bewitching charm on the elderly marine officer, offered him her hand.

"He has to leave now, haven't you, Mr Lane? And we, too, must shortly be on our way, if we are to reach Hamble before dark."

Lane accepted his dismissal, and when he had gone, Grace turned to her father.

"Samuel was sentenced to be cashiered?"

"Yes, that was the court's decision. The only one, in the circumstances, since the boy offered no defence, but-" Hunter frowned. "For all that, a harsh one. He kept his promise to you to the letter, Grace."

"I was sure he would. Poor Samuel!" Grace gestured to the tea tray on the table in front of her. "Tea, Papa? It's still quite hot."

He shook his head, again faintly shocked by his daughter's attitude but reluctant to judge her. "No, thank you. As you told Lieutenant Lane, if we're to reach home before dark, we should be on our way. Is the baby ready? I take it your luggage went this morning, in the wagonette?"

Grace gathered her shawl about her. "Yes, the luggage went hours ago. And little William has been ready since lunchtime – that half-witted nurse kept him from his afternoon sleep, although I told her that you would probably be late. So I expect he will wail most of the way. He's a difficult child, heaven knows!" She paused, eyeing her father speculatively. "Did you talk to Samuel Gibbs?"

"Yes, I talked to him."

"And you gave him my note?"

"Yes, of course."

"Did he – that is, did he accept it? Does he understand that I cannot see him again, Papa? Because I cannot, I – oh, if I had never met him, James might be alive today!"

For a moment, her father did not reply. He had told Samuel Gibbs that she was heartbroken, but … He studied his daughter's lovely, untroubled face and wondered what she really felt – if, indeed, she felt anything at all – for the unhappy young man who had been her friend.

Finally he answered her question, his voice flat and carefully controlled. "He understood, my dear, you made your feelings plain enough."

"I had to, Papa," Grace defended. "Samuel wanted me to _marry_ him, if you please, when my mourning for poor James was over! I could not possibly marry him, could I, when his career is in ruins? What will he do, now that he's no longer a serving naval officer? He's not trained for anything else. He's been in the navy since he was twelve years old!"

Samuel Gibbs, her father thought, had enlisted in the 40th Foot, as a common soldier. The man who had signed on with him – a decent young fellow named Burnaby – had confirmed it; and for the cost of a paltry five sovereigns, Hunter had extracted a promise from him to report regularly on Gibbs' progress. Whatever Grace felt – or did not feel – Gibbs was on _his _conscience, and there was still the land in New Zealand. Perhaps, after a taste of life in the ranks, the poor young devil would change his mind about accepting the deeds. I should not present much difficulty to arrange to buy him out of the regiment; there were still some strings he could pull, and … Hunter looked again at his daughter. He would not tell her what Gibbs had done, he decided; she would undoubtedly pour scorn on the young man's choice of a new career.

He shrugged noncommittally and changed the subject, taking his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket.

"Shall we make a move, then, my dear? The carriage is at the door, and as you know, your dear mama is not in the best of health. She will worry and upset herself if we are late arriving home. Call your nursemaid and have her bring the child down."

Grace smiled. "Gladly, Papa. I shall be thankful to leave this place." She took a key from her reticule and gave it to him. "Be so good as to hand this over to the landlord, will you please? He's been waiting in the kitchen since I don't know when – anxious to find new tenants, I suppose. And-" She hesitated, looking up at her father with dark, expressive eyes. "I'm afraid I owe him some rent. Only a few pounds, but if you could be very kind and settle with him, I … I'd be very grateful."

James Hunter accepted the key. The arrears of rent amounted to considerably more than his daughter had implied, but he paid what the lodging house keeper asked, and the man thanked him profusely and, eager to show his appreciation, bustled out, carrying various pieces of baggage out to the waiting carriage.

The nursemaid, a slim, pretty girl, came downstairs with the baby, whom she had well muffled up for the journey. Major Hunter studied the small face, half-hidden beneath a thick woollen shawl. Little William certainly had his mother's cast of countenance, her finely chiselled nose and small, rosebud mouth. Contrary to his mother's disparaging forecast, the little fellow was sleeping peacefully, and Hunter warmed to him. Young William James Ferrier might well come to bless his parentage when he grew to man's estate, and indeed-

"We are ready and waiting, Papa," Grace reminded him impatiently, disrupting his thoughts. "And I do believe it's starting to rain."

"Very well, my dear." Her father gave her his arm, and with the nursemaid preceding them, they hurried out to the carriage, where the baby – still sleeping – was transferred to a wicker cot, and the nursemaid, unbidden, climbed onto the box beside the coachman.

Alone with her father in the interior of the well-padded carriage, Grace became more talkative, asking about the friends her parents had made since their return from India and the social life in Hamble, where they had now made their home.

"We do not go out a lot these days," James Hunter confessed. "Your mother's health – and, come to that, my own – restricts us a good deal. But we entertain. The house is large and beautifully situated, overlooking the river, and we've been fortunate in finding a staff of excellent servants. I think you will be happy with us, my dear. In fact, I feel sure you will. True, there are not many young people in the village; but one of our friends, Sir Christopher Forsyth, who was in the Indian Political Service with me, has a large family of about your age. His eldest son, Leonard, is a frequent visitor. He's second-in-command of the Seventieth Regiment, stationed at their depot in Canterbury, and he seems to get plenty of leave. There are two – no, three daughters, one of whom is married. We'll ask them over to meet you. The married daughter has young children, I believe."

Grace listened, displaying little enthusiasm. After a while, she asked unexpectedly, taking him by surprise, "Papa, when you spoke to him this morning, did Samuel Gibbs tell you what he intended to do, now that the navy has dispensed with his services?"

Why should she not be told, her father asked himself, reluctantly revising his earlier decision, which had been made when she had shown so little interest in the fate of the young man she had once called her friend. He said gruffly, "He did not confide in me, but as it chanced, I saw what he did. He enlisted in the Fortieth Foot – a regiment which is currently serving in Australia. They were recruiting in town."

Grace turned in her seat to stare at him in wide-eyed astonishment. "Samuel _enlisted_? In the ranks, do you mean – as a common soldier?"

"Yes, as a common soldier, Grace. He could do nothing else. Commissions are not granted to cashiered officers, you know."

"Yes, I know that. But to enlist in the army … and go out to Australia, of all places! I can't believe it."

"It is the truth, my dear." Relenting in the face of her evident concern, James Hunter reached for his daughter's hand. "I was able to make contact with a young fellow who enlisted with him, in the same regiment. In return for a small payment, he has promised to keep me informed of Samuel's doings. I thought, in the circumstances, that you would want to know how he was faring."


	5. Chapter Four

**CHAPTER IV**

Samuel had completed the initial three-week recruit training course, held at the Chatham depot of the 31st Regiment, before the officer who was to command the 40th's draft made his appearance.

He had met with few difficulties until then. The instructors, drawn from both regiments, were veteran NCOs who, if demanding a high standard, were patient with the less able of the recruits and more than ready to encourage those displaying ability and keenness. From the outset, his naval training and the experience of serving with the _Shannon_'s brigade on land in India stood him in good stead. The _Shannon_'s seamen had drilled like infantry, marched for long distances carrying heavy packs, and the rifle contingent in which he had served had been issued with the Enfields, which had replaced the old Brown Bess muskets. Training as an infantryman thus presented no problems, but Samuel found it less easy to accustom himself to the close contact of barracks life, the rigid discipline and lack of freedom – more marked than in even the tautest of naval ships of war – and, most trying of all, the monotous, badly cooked food.

There were times when he deeply regretted the impulse that had led him to enlist in the ranks; times when the uncouth company of some of his fellow recruits and the endless menial chores he was called upon to perform irked him almost beyond endurance. But by the end of the third week, he had contrived to adjust to his changed circumstances and even to take pride in the standard of competence he had achieved.

The fifty men who composed the draft for Australia had treated him, at first, with suspicious resentment. They had nicknamed him the Toff and resisted all Samuel's attempts to establish friendly relations with them. But after a while, when they found that he was willing to share his skills and knowledge with any who asked, their resentment had vanished, giving place to respect. Young Burnaby had been the first to seek his aid. A cheerful, happy-go-lucky lad, possessed of some education, he was clumsy and inept, constantly in trouble for his poor performances on the drill square and shooting range, for losing his kit, failing to clean his rifle to the army's exacting standard, and being late on parade. With the aid of Samuel's painstaking tuition, his improvement was soon evident, and it had not been long before a number of the other recruits had followed his example – some a trifle sheepishly, but not many now held aloof from him, although his nickname had stuck.

His platoon sergeant, a fine old soldier named Doran, was quick to appreciate his merits. Doran had fought in every action in the Sutlej campaign and in the trenches in the Crimea, earning the Sardinian _al valore _decoration and a Meritorious Service Medal for heroism in the final attack on the Russian redan and the capture of Sebastopol. He had been badly wounded but, anxious to continue his service, had transferred from the 31st to the 40th Regiment in the hope that, in faraway Australia, his physical infirmities would escape official notice. A widower, the old sergeant occupied a small, curtained-off section of the barrackroom, where he brewed tea in the evenings and relaxed with a foul-smelling clay pipe in the company of some of his cronies, talking nostalgically of half-forgotten battles and old comrades, whose battlefield graves bore witness to their sacrifice and the regiment's glory.

It was held to be an honour to be invited into Doran's inner sanctum, and Samuel was at once pleased and surprised when the invitation was extended to him at the end of a day on the ranges. He went it and was waved hospitably to a sagging, chintz-covered armchair by the stove.

"Smoke, if you want to," Doran greeted him. "And I take it you won't refuse a cup o' tea?"

The tea was strong and bitter, the air blue with tobacco smoke, but Samuel lit his own pipe and sipped cautiously at the tea. Sergeant Doran came to the point without preamble. "You're good, Shannon – you're very good. But to my mind, you're just a mite _too _good. D'you understand me?"

"I'm not sure I do, Sergeant," Samuel evaded.

"I think you do, lad. You're no raw recruit, are you? You've served Her Majesty before, _and _on the field o' battle, if I'm any judge. That's true, ain't it?"

"Yes, it's true. But-" Samuel reddened, "That is-"

Doran waved him to silence with his pipestem.

"I'm not one to pry nor tell no tales, but I like to know whatever there is to know about my men. Were you an officer?"

It was no use attempting to deny it. Samuel nodded, his colour deepening. "Yes, in the navy, Sergeant Doran."

Doran's leathery face wore an oddly satisfied smile. "That's what I figured, and I reckon you didn't quit willingly. Cashiered, were you?"

"Yes. For the loss of my ship. I was held to have been drunk on duty."

Once again Doran's blackened pipestem described an admonitory circle. "All right, you needn't say no more. Far as I'm concerned you're number eight-five-six Private Shannon and you've not touched a drop o' liquor since you've been here at the depot, so I'll presume you've learned your lesson. Keep that up and you'll make a good soldier. Fact, I'm going to recommend that you're made up to corporal when you're through here – you've earned a step up, and you know how to handle men. There's just one thing, though-" He paused, eyeing Samuel speculatively from beneath beetling grey brows. "I'd not want what I'm going to tell you to go no further."

"It won't, Sergeant," Samuel assured him.

Doran helped himself to another brimming mug of tea. "The draft commander's due back from leave tomorrow – Captain Marcus Fisher," he said, frowning. "Young feller, he is – not above twenty-two. Come to us from the cavalry, the Fifteenth Hussars – no war service. His pa's a rich City o' London merchant – bought young Mr Fisher his captaincy."

The sergeant lowered his voice. "I've not had all that much to do with the young gentleman, but let's say he's not the officer _I'd _have chosen to command the draft. You'd be wise to watch your step with him, Shannon, because he'll spot you for what you are as soon as he claps eyes on you. And he don't like gentlemen rankers – I know that for a fact. He gave one decent youngster we had in Fermoy a hard time, for no better reason, seemingly, than because his uncle was master of a foxhunt." He shrugged and reached for the teapot. "Like another cup, would you, before you turn in?"

Samuel thanked him and declined. He was not unduly worried by what the old sergeant had told him. The depot officers, including the commandant, had treated him no differently from the other recruits, whatever they might know or speculate concerning his past. The court martial findings had been reported in the local newspapers but given no prominence, and he had no reason to suppose that the newly arrived draft commander was likely to single him out – provided that, as Doran had advised, he watched his step.

The following morning, the recruits were ordered to parade for Captain Fisher's inspection, and they did so eagerly, proud of their soldierly bearing and immaculate uniforms. It was, however, to prove a lengthy ordeal, for which they had not been prepared.

Fisher was revealed as a small, dapper young man, with ginger whiskers framing his face and a cavalry moustache, retained from his previous regiment, together with a pronounced lisp, which, in the past, Adam had come to associate with the officers of certain fashionable cavalry regiments. His commands, delivered in this manner, were not always audible to the marching men, who inevitably fell into confusion, and the drill movements and formations that had been practised so assiduously had to be repeated.

The midday cookhouse bugle was ignored. Captain Fisher stood, tapping his highly polished boots impatiently with his cane, and the men, sweating under full packs, marched up and down in front of him, the sun beating down on them and the dust raised by their plodding feet wafted, in choking clouds, into their faces.

"They are a slovenly, idle lot, Sarn't Doran!" he complained loudly. "For the Lord's sake, they will have to do better than this before I'm satisfied! You'll have to take them for extra drill every morning from now on – I'll see the depot commandant to arrange it. God's truth, man, we are due to embark for Sydney in ten days' time, and you are the senior NCO! I'd expected a higher standard from you, I must confess." He took out his pocket watch, affecting to study it in surprise. "Good heavens, is that the time? All right, Sarn't – dismiss them. I'll be ready for kit inspection at two o'clock. _Punctually _at two o'clock, mind."

Sergeant Doran, it was evident, was fuming, but he came smartly to attention and saluted before bawling the order to dismiss the parade.

Kit inspection, Samuel knew, had been anticipated for the following day, giving the men all evening to prepare for it; now they would have to devote their dinner hour to the cleaning and scouring, the polishing and setting out of every item of kit they possessed, in the meticulous order that army regulations demanded.

With the aid of hastily summoned volunteers from the depot staff and their own instructors, it was done, but, predictably, the result fell short of Captain Fisher's expectations. With his cane, the draft's commanding officer flicked at neatly rolled blankets and greatcoats, at folded tunics and piles of socks and underwear, leaving a disordered mess in his wake and the recruits in a state of shocked dismay as they watched their painstaking efforts demolished and saw their sergeant publicly humiliated.

"This won't do, Sarn't Doran!" the young officer drawled. "It simply will not do. This barrackroom is filthy, and half your men's kit is missing. And look at this rifle!"

Samuel's bed was at the end of the long row, and it was his rifle Fisher chose to examine. Breaking it open, he held it to the light from a nearby window and squinted contemptuously down the gleaming interior of the rifled barrel.

"Filthy!" he stated. "Thick with oil! Put this man on a charge, Sarn't Doran. If there's one thing I will not tolerate it's a dirty rifle. Don't you realize, man," he added, addressing Samuel, "this is the weapon you are required to fight with? When you go into action, your life and the lives of your comrades will depend on it!"

Intercepting a warning glance from Doran, Samuel stood woodenly at attention, saying nothing. Fisher threw the rifle back at him. "Well," he demanded, "what have you to say for yourself? Speak up, man – I'm listening!"

"I've nothing to say, sir," Samuel responded.

"Haven't you, now? Good Gad, Sarn't Doran, where in the world did you find this dumbcluck?"

"He's a good man, sir," Doran defended. "The best in the draft. I'm recommending him for a stripe, sir."

Captain Fisher made an elaborate show of astonishment. "_This _fellow? A man who doesn't know how to clean his rifle? Or, come to that, how to prepare his kit for inspection?" The cane descended, scattering a pile of grey army shirts and sending Samuel's mess kit and water bottle after them. "You're wanting to promote _him _corporal?"

"Yes, sir," Sergeant Doran confirmed obstinately. "Like I told you, he's a good man, sir."

"Well, you amaze me!" Fisher exclaimed. His pale, slate-blue eyes held an odd gleam as he studied Samuel in silence for a long moment. Then he said, frowning, "There's something about you … demmed if I know what it is, though. What's your name, man?"

"Shannon, sir." Samuel met the young captain's baleful gaze without flinching.

"Shannon, eh? Is that not the name of a naval ship – one of Her Majesty's steam frigates, if I'm not mistaken? And – yes, by George, of an Irish river! I thought it sounded familiar. Is it really your name, my man? Or-" Fisher smiled unpleasantly. "Is it just a name you picked, to avoid using you own? You're not a deserter from the Royal Navy, are you, Private Shannon?"

"No, sir, I am not." Despite the flagrant attempt to goad him, Samuel managed to speak without heat, mindful of Sergeant Doran's warning. He resisted Fisher's efforts to outstare him, his expression carefully blank, and received a nod of approval from the old sergeant as the draft commander finally passed on, to complete his inspection on the opposite side of the room. His querulous, lisping voice continued to express displeasure at what he found, and it came as no surprise when, following his departure, Sergeant Doran announced that the kit inspection was to be repeated next day.

"And reveille for you is to be an hour early, my lads," Doran said flatly. "You'll muster on the square for arms drill every morning this week."

The men grumbled bitterly among themselves, but by the end of the week their passing-out parade was held and the salute taken by the depot commandant, whose praise went some way to compensate for their own officer's strictures. They were granted embarkation leave – the first leave they had had since their enlistment – and Samuel found himself promoted to the rank of corporal in depot orders.

It was a small enough achievement, but it pleased him mightily, and the men of his platoon, led by Tom Burnaby, surrounded him in a gleeful crowd to insist that it was cause for celebration.

"We got to wet them stripes, Shannon," Burnaby told him, grinning. "An' seenin' they've given us just twelve-hour passes, the only ones that can go home are the lucky blokes that live round here. _My _folks live in bloomin' Leeds! But we've got our pay, and we don't have to back in barracks till midnight. Come on, will you? There's over a dozen of us ready an' willing to shout you a beer, in return for what you done for us, an' the King's Arms is just down the road!"

Samuel yielded to their insistence. They marched out of the depot gates together, brave in their scarlet tunics and crested forage caps, happily exchanging banter with the corporal of the guard who inspected their passes, and laughing in good-humoured derision when he warned them to be back by midnight in a state of sobriety.

"We ain't bin let out o' barracks for a month, Corporal," one of the youngsters retorted, "an' our tongues is hanging out. You'll let us back in, won't you, even if we're a bit merry? After all, we're going foreign in a couple o' days, an' the Lord only knows when we'll see England again!"

"If it's left to me," the guard commander answered, "I know 'ow to turn a blind eye, lad. But there's some as don't, so watch it, will you?"

It was a convivial if slightly rowdy evening, and despite his initial misgivings, Samuel entered into the spirit of the gathering and enjoyed himself. He had forced himself, during the strenuous weeks of training, not to think of Grace, but he thought of her as he stood in the cosy taproom of the King's Arms and found, to his own surprise, that the pain engendered by her loss was no longer acute. It was there, of course; he had loved her so deeply and passionately that losing her still hurt him, but … he had become resigned to the fact that she had rejected him, and it was with a feeling of relief that he contemplated his imminent departure to the other side of the world and the prospect of a new life, in which Grace would have no part.

He drank as sparingly as he could, restricting himself to cider, determined that he would shepherd his little party back to the barracks well before their passes expired. The recruits, with no such inhibitions, drowned their beers and engaged in some spirited horseplay; but the landlord was tolerant, as they did no damage, and when the time came for them to leave, they obeyed Samuel's summons without argument – although with noisy ribaldry, their voices raised in song.

They laughed and joked as they made their way through the darkened streets, all of them in a state of happy insobriety, but Samuel managed to silence them as they approached the barrack gates, and, recalling the guard commander's promise to turn a blind eye, he was not unduly concerned. There had been quite a few occasions during his naval services when he had turned a blind eye to seamen returning from a run ashore in a much worse state than that of these young soldiers.


	6. Chapter Five

V

The water droplet gathered speed again and splashed onto the collar of the Doctor's coat, which Miss Brown held wrapped about her and me.

The time rotor shuddered into life once more.

Console lights flickered dimly on.

". . . compensate," concluded the Doctor, his voice returning to its usual tone.

A dull, solid, thump reverberated through the TARDIS, like the distant sound of a lead slab hitting the ground.

We had landed.

I blinked and looked about myself in puzzlement. Superficially, it seemed as though the power had flickered off for a second or two, then come on again. But somewhere deep inside, something told me that the 'moment' had actually lasted for years. I shook my head gingerly, hoping that everything would make sense again soon, and reminding myself that if I had wanted an ordinary life, I wouldn't be here.

"Ah, good," said the Doctor, as though everything was perfectly normal. He stood up and went over to the console, where he began to study the few scattered readings that were showing on the displays.

Miss Brown and I struggled upright within the enveloping folds of his borrowed coat and followed him, our bare feet slapping over the still wet floor. The Doctor circled the console, studying the controls and cautiously adjusting settings. After a minute of this, I commented brightly: "I'm glad we've got some light in here again. Does this mean the rest of the power will be back on line soon?"

"Unfortunately not. This is just the last of the residual force field energy that has been re-absorbed into the system," the Doctor replied, still circling busily.

"So what about the link with the Eye of Harmony?" asked Miss Brown.

"That's still broken."

"Can't you fix it?" I asked.

"Oddly enough," the Doctor responded, with heavy sarcasm, "that is what I am trying to do." He stood back from the controls and scratched his head for a moment, looking frankly perplexed. "However, the beam is not there to be locked on to!"

"I thought you said it could be picked up anywhere in time and space?" asked Miss Brown.

"It can."

"So?" I asked.

"So, either this is somewhere outside the normal continuum, or else the beam is being blocked. I'm detecting some peculiar faint energy readings, but with the low power the receptor sensitivity is not what I would wish, so I can't make a detailed analysis." His brow furrowed in deep thought once more.

"Things don't work too good without that beam, do they Doctor?" Miss Brown commented, disturbing his reverie.

"Hmm? Ah, no. No, the link to the Eye of Harmony was the Time Lord discovery that made widespread time travel safe and controllable. It supplies not only power, but the equivalent of a fixed reference point, both physically and temporally, for calibration purposes. It allows a TARDIS to determine its location with tremendous precision –"

"But have you any idea where _we_ are _now_? I mean, we have landed _somewhere_, haven't we?" I asked.

"Yes, we have definitely landed somewhere."

"Well, don't keep it a state secret, Doctor!" said Miss Brown.

The Doctor looked annoyed, unwilling to admit he was unsure of the facts. "Allowing for the interference with the systems we sustained and the low power, the navigation reading do indicate that we almost completed our planned journey."

"How do you mean?" I asked.

"We are in Sydney, one hundred and twenty-five years ago, approximately."

"Well, at least that's somewhere, Doctor," said Miss Brown.

"Yes, but that doesn't explain why I can't detect the Eye of Harmony link, or the origin of the trace energy field. Something is definitely wrong here," he concluded.

Miss Brown smiled wryly and shrugged, as expressively as she could within the bulky coat. "So what's new? I should've known better than to expect two trips in a row to work out okay." She appeared to have recovered her resolve. "Okay, let's get outside and take a look-see. It'll be nice to get into the light again."

"I'm afraid there is no light outside," replied the Doctor, turning on the main scanner. The screen came to life but showed only blackness. "We appear to have materialized inside an enclosed space; some sort of building, I assume. For the moment, however, it seems to be deserted."

"We're going to need some torches, then." I peered around the gloomy interior. "Could do with some more light in here while we're about it."

"The emergency lamps are behind the third roundel up, on the left of the column beside the sea-chest," the Doctor informed us absently, returning to his examination of the control console.

The roundel swung open to reveal deep shelves holding an antique oil lamp, three hurricane lamps, two miners' Davy lamps, four camper's gas-fuelled lights and several electric torches, of more or less conventional appearance. Miss Brown switched on one of the torches to test it. "Say, Doctor, I wish you'd have told me these were here earlier. Hey, what's this?" Amongst the clutter, Miss Brown had discovered a box containing what appeared to be a dozen fist-sized blobs of cloudy plastic jelly, which were soft and malleable to the touch.

The Doctor glanced over briefly. "Oh, yes; synthetic bioluminescents. Mould one in your hand for a minute."

Miss Brown and I worked with one of the blobs each, feeling it grow warm in our hands. Within moments it started to glow with a pale, green tinted radiance. I was entranced by the effect, momentarily forgetting our situation. The blobs were slightly tacky, sticking to the wall, but peeling off again easily. A little experimentation revealed they could be shaped like modelling clay, and I quickly made a glowing circlet to wear on my head. I laughed. "See, Doctor: very practical – needs no hands! Bet these would make great kids' toys as well."

"They _are _children's toys, about thirty years on from your time. Now; if you have quite finished playing, we'll see what is outside, shall we?"

"Wait for us, we've just got to find some clothes." Taking a torch and a couple of the glow-blobs, which we planned to put up to illuminate the way, we splashed out into the corridor.

"Do please try not to get my coat wet," the Doctor called plaintively after us.

"Doctor, anything that happens to this coat can only be an improvement!" I called back.

We were back in a few minutes. Miss Brown had loaned me a shirt and a pair of shorts. She was carrying the Doctor's coat with elaborate care to keep it clear of any splashes. The corridor was still awash, and Miss Brown reflected: "It will take a good deal of mop-and-bucket work to clean this up if we can't get the TARDIS's automatic maintenance systems powered up soon."

We found the Doctor was laboriously turning a crank handle inserted in a small socket beside the doors, which were slowly swinging open. I could see only blackness beyond.

When they were wide enough, Miss Brown handed him his coat and a torch. The Doctor squeezed between the doors and we followed close behind.

The air outside was cool and still and slightly musty. It was totally silent except for the sound of our own movements, and the scrape of our shoes on the stone floor seemed harsh and intrusive. I shivered, feeling as though our presence was resented in some way. I swung my torch around, probing the darkness with its beam. The TARDIS seemed to have materialized inside a spacious chamber, built of close-fitting stonework, which I estimated to be perhaps four metres high, by ten long and five wide. The dancing circle of my torch beam revealed flashes of colour; a broad frieze was painted on the walls between knee and head height, comprised of figure groups in colonial dress set in various tableaux. Between them were blocks of text. In the middle of one of the chamber's long walls was a massive double door, but without any sign of a handle. Was that the only door? I wondered, swinging my torch around.

"Yike!" My involuntary exclamation of surprise echoed around the chamber. Beside a second doorway stood the silent guardian figure of a man carrying a rod and mace.

At my yell, the Doctor's torch had also turned to illuminate the motionless figure. "What beautiful workmanship," he observed, with infuriating composure. His torch beam revealed a second figure, seemingly identical to the first, on the other side of the doorway.

I recovered myself. "Wow, Doctor. How was I supposed to know it was a statue? It looks so real. It's the atmosphere in here. This place is as spooky as a –"

"Tomb?" suggested the Doctor. "Perhaps that is because it _is_ a tomb."

"Huh?"

"At least, the antechamber or a tomb," he explained, playing his torch over the frieze as he circled the chamber, examining the pictures and text intently. "This appears to be a record of the life and triumphs of its occupant."

"Oh. And who's that?"

"Apparently, Sir Charles Augustus FitzRoy, Governor of New South Wales."

"Hey! FitzRoy's own tomb," I said, slightly awed, unconsciously lowering my voice to a respectful whisper.

"And these are representations of the gentleman himself," said the Doctor, indicating the twin statues, "symbolically guarding the entrance to the inner chambers, and his own last resting place." They were beautifully carved and black lacquered, with the costume being picked out in gilt. Two doors they guarded were intricately patterned and inlaid. Tied between the large handle of each door was a heavy twisted rope, fused into place with wax and clay seals.

I shivered slightly. "Some place for us to land, isn't it? But I didn't know governors were buried in tombs like this."

"They weren't," the Doctor replied. In the reflected torchlight, I saw his features had taken on an unusually grim set. "Look at this next wall beside the door."

The pictures portrayed a series of celebrations and grand processions. It was a summary of the life and triumphs of Fitzroy and his government. The pictorial style of the work was a composite of the symbolic and naturalistic, and I found some of the distortions of perspective and relative sizes of people according to rank confusing. One factor, though, soon became abundantly clear.

"Some of these more recent things never happened in _my _past, did they, Doctor?" I said hesitantly.

"No, they didn't. Look at the dates of these events."

I was working my way along the wall. "Hey, what's this big sea battle in 1841? Are these meant to be _diesel_ ships?"

"Unfortunately, I think they are. I don't think there were any sea battles around Australia at that time."

"Well, there are here." I continued along the frieze. "Look, in 1843, they seem to have changed the calendar."

"So they have," confirmed the Doctor. "'Dominion Year One,' it says."

"Here's Fitzroy's funeral, I guess, in thirteen DY," I continued, "and there it ends." I turned away from the wall, my expression deeply troubled. "Doctor, just where are we?"


	7. Chapter Six

**CHAPTER VI**

Johnny Broome stood in the bow of the dinghy and scanned the New Plymouth shoreline as the sweating sailors of the _Airedale _guided the propeller and took him in. It was the _Airedale_'s third trip ferrying supplies and imperial troops down the coast from Auckland, and Johnny's newspaper had used all its considerable influence to gain him passage aboard.

Even to a stranger, it was easy to see why Taranaki Province was so coveted by the impatient settlers, and why feelings ran so high over the fact that a few thousand Maori – who, it was said, could not possibly use a tenth part of the property to which they held confusing and conflicting titles – were blocking the sale of two million acres of some of the best land in New Zealand. Approached from the ocean, the town's situation presented a charming aspect, rising gradually from a sparkling beach towards a rich green Eden of fields, orchards, and virgin bush that climbed gradually toward the majestic, symmetrical cone of Mount Egmont, in the distance.

"Careful, Mr Broome," the coxswain called to him from the stern. "If you fall overboard, the cap'n will have our hides."

Johnny sat down sheepishly and continued his examination of the curving shore. There was no doubt that New Plymouth had grown explosively. At least four or five hundred houses and buildings, some of them substantial, were sprawled across the landscape, jumbled in the foreground and peeping out from amid the trees farther inland. The crown of one prominent hill was totally covered with an unprepossessing complex, which he took to be the immigration barracks, and he could see several churches and chapels.

"It's getting a bit crowded, isn't it, sir?" the coxswain offered. "I don't know where they're going to put the Royal Artillery detachment we've brought them."

And that was true enough, Johnny thought, surveying the settlement. Until the hostilities had broken out, enough land had been purchased to expand the district into a strip of about twenty miles along the seashore and extending approximately seven miles into the interior. But now the settlers were abandoning their little homesteads in the open country and bunching themselves in town, and the imperial troops that were pouring into the Taranaki were overburdening the provincial capital still further. More than five thousand people, Johnny had been given to understand by his editor, were now jammed into a space whose housing and drainage were adequate for a quarter of that number. As the longboat drew closer to shore, he could see the tent city and makeshift hovels and, beyond them, the hasty line of the trenches and redoubts behind which the inhabitants had compressed themselves.

"Unhealthy it is, sir," the coxswain said gruffly. "Before all this started, there was hardly a funeral in a twelvemonth. But on our last two trips here, while we lay at anchor, hardly a day passed without one."

The sailors cut the engine and splashed through the light surf to beach the boat, and Johnny vaulted to the sand. "Thank you, lads," he said, waving back, and set off along the beach towards the centre of greatest military activity, in search of someone who could direct him to the 65th Regiment's command post.

He caught up with two men who seemed to know where they were going – a stocky naval officer and a tall fellow in the rude flannel shirt of a settler and an old pair of cavalryman's trousers – and was about to hail them when he saw the latter's empty sleeve and cried, as he drew abreast, "Will? Will De Lancey?"

William turned round and, a smile creasing his face, exclaimed with pleasure, "Johnny, my dear fellow! What brings you here? Or is that a foolish question – presumably you've come to report on our preparations for war?"

Johnny nodded gravely. "It is causing much anxiety in Auckland, Will – my editor's taking a very serious view of it, as well he might with the governor down here to oversee matters. I came in the _Airedale, _with a detachment of the Royal Artillery."

"You've missed the governor, I'm afraid," William informed him. "He sailed back to Auckland several days ago, leaving Colonel Gold, I'm sorry to say, unhampered by his presence. Where's Lady Kitty? You won't have brought her with you on a troopship?"

"She is remaining in Auckland," Johnny answered, and stopped himself from saying more. He turned to the naval officer with a questioning smile.

William hastened to introduce them. "This is Captain Cracroft, commanding Her Majesty's ship _Niger_. My brother-in-law, John Broome … Johnny and his wife took passage with me a year ago aboard Claus Van Buren's _Dolphin, _and we haven't managed to see each other since."

"I know the _Dolphin,_" Cracroft responded, a smile creasing his square, bearded face. "A splendid vessel. Captain Van Buren has been kept pretty busy of late ferrying military supplies here under government contract, but he's anxious to return to his trading post at Rangirata. If you intend stay here a week or two, Mr Broome, you'll probably be able to book passage back to Auckland with him."

"I'm not sure how long I'll be here," Johnny replied. "That may depend on the Maoris. Will the _Niger_ be staying in these waters, Captain?"

"For as long as we're wanted," Cracroft returned. He gave a snort of disgust. "But Colonel Gold has not been overeager to make use of my tars. He wants only my machine guns and the rocket launchers. He views us simply as his portable artillery. I'm on my way now to see if he'll relent and allow my lads a share of the action in today's operation."

"Colonel Gold is a glory hunter," William asserted, with unaccustomed bitterness. "He relegates the Mounted Volunteers to a supporting role as well, and sends us into the bush to do his dirty work, while he masses his imperial troops in formal ranks in a style of warfare that has been obsolete since Waterloo."

"Yes, he understands nothing about bush warfare," Cracroft amplified. "During our last action, before the governor departed, Gold trampled all over the landscape destroying abandoned _pas_ … abandoned because the Maoris simply left them when they heard him crashing through the bush and set up shop elsewhere. When Gold finally found an occupied _pa_ whose inhabitants seemed willing to give him a fight, he drew all his troops up in front and bombarded the place for two days. Then, when he finally made up his mind to an assault, he found the _pa_ deserted. The Maoris had stolen away during the first night. And Gold went triumphantly back to the governor and announced, 'Well, we taught them a lesson.'"

"This entire Taranaki war is a tragic error," William affirmed. "It's based on one misunderstanding after another. First Governor Gore-Browne alienated the tribes by refusing to see the spokesman they sent to Auckland to ask for a small loan for a flour mill – a loan the former governor, Grey, would have granted without question – and _then_ he went on to exacerbate the situation by repealing Grey's ordinance against selling arms and ammunition to the natives! Then came the Waitara land purchase dispute. Wiremu Kingi at first tried peaceful means to prevent the land from being occupied. He picked the oldest and most repulsive women in the tribe and sent them out to follow the surveyors about, hugging and kissing them. The poor surveyors had to take to their heels!"

Johnny laughed uproariously. "Hardly an act of war."

"Colonel Gold, I fear, has no sense of humour. He occupied the plot with an armed force, and when Kingi sent men out at night to pull up the survey pegs, Gold bombarded the _pa_ with artillery. And so now we have war. The other Waitara tribes are rallying to Kingi's support, and New Plymouth is virtually under siege. The homesteaders – including myself – have had to abandon their property, except for a few diehards who continue to hold out."

"You've come in the nick of time to get a story, Broome," Cracroft put in. "There's a fortified _pa _at Waireka, a few miles south of here, and Gold's marching on it today to teach the natives another lesson."

"We're on our way to the briefing now," William invited. "Why don't you sit in?"

"Will Colonel Gold object?" Johnny queried.

Captain Cracroft gave a short bark. "He'll hardly notice you're there, dressed as you are." He eyed Johnny's rough tweed jacket and heavy boots. "No offence, Broome, but Colonel Gold doesn't pay a great deal of attention to colonials."

"He'll pay attention to my stories, if one half of what you said is true – that I promise you," Johnny countered unsmilingly.

The briefing took place in the large unpainted building the Town Board had been using for its hall. The room was crowded with officers of the 65th, naval personnel, and representatives of the Mounted Volunteers and their infantry counterparts, the Rifle Volunteers. Town officials were also present. Johnny found a place and settled back to listen to the proceedings.

"All the remaining outlying settlers must be brought into town without delay," Colonel Gold stated, pacing back and forth in front of a large map. Turning to Captain Brown, he added deprecatingly, "That will be a task for the Mounted Volunteers, Captain Brown, and one, I trust, they will not find beyond their capabilities?"

"Certainly not, sir," Brown asserted indignantly.

"Good! Then you will move inland, parallel to the shore, to Waireka, with Captain Atkinson's Rifle Volunteers in support, gather in the settlers, and join the main body of my troops on the Omata road, travelling across country to rendezvous with them here." His finger jabbed at the map in front of him. "But no heroics, if you please – the settlers are to be your sole concern. That goes for your Rifle Volunteers as well, Captain Atkinson. Is that understood?"

Atkinson, an impressive-looking man with a bushy beard, said tightly, "It is."

"I want there to be no mistake about that," Gold persisted. "My second-in-command, Colonel Murray, will deal with any native opposition, and if you run into trouble, you are to call on him for help."

"If there are any mistakes, they will not be made by the Rifle Volunteers," Atkinson retorted hotly.

There was a stir in the room at Atkinson's forthright reply. A settler sitting behind Johnny nudged him and said, not without a hint of pride in his voice, "That's our Harry, right enough! Gives as good as 'e gets. If 'e decides to go into politics when this war is over, 'e'll go far, mark my words. We'll 'ave 'im as premier one of these days."

Colonel Gold spent a moment or two trying to stare the Volunteer officer down. "Very well, then," he said finally, and turned to Colonel Murray.

"The main body, consisting of the Light Company of the Sixty-fifth and the gunnery contingent from the _Niger_, will proceed under Colonel Murray along the main road, going south towards Waireka Hill. The Royal Artillery detachment that arrived this morning aboard the _Airedale_ has not, I'm afraid, finished unloading, but I am confident we shall not need them. The machine guns and the rocket launcher will be sufficient to soften the enemy up for an assault by the Sixty-fifth."

Captain Cracroft stood up to protest. "You're not leaving my bluejackets out of it again, Colonel? I can give you sixty lads with cutlasses to storm those palisades, and they'll be over them like monkeys before the Maoris know what's happening."

"That is not the way to take a fortified position," Gold said coldly. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, Captain Cracroft, and-" He hesitated for the barest instant. "-and the climbing abilities of sailors, but I am sure you will admit that the science of military strategy, as it applies to land warfare, is not the strong point of the Royal Navy. You must leave that to the professionals. In any case, these manoeuvers should not take long. I shall expect the operation to be completed and the troops back here before dusk."

Cracroft sat down with a disgruntled expression. Beside Johnny, William De Lancey whispered in amazement, "Before dusk? How the deuce does he imagine he can wrap up this operation by sundown? For goodness's sake, the morning's half gone already!"

Gold could not have heard the comment, but it was easy for him to glean, from the whispers that were going around the room, the fact that he was being criticized. He fixed William with a bulging eye and said, with choleric satisfaction, "As for you, _Colonel_ De Lancey, I have written to the War Branch in Auckland regarding your lack of a commission, but as yet have received no reply. So you are again cast for the role of observer."

William held his tongue, but at the conclusion of the meeting, as the regimental and militia officers hurried out to carry on their duties, he took Johnny by the arm and said, "Come on. I suppose you'd better meet him."

Gold had just finished irascibly shaking off some of the New Plymouth civilians, and as William and Johnny approached he looked at them peevishly and said, "De Lancey, who is this gentleman?"

"May I introduce my brother-in-law, John Broome?" William said. "He arrived on behalf of the Auckland _Star_."

Gold reacted with swift fury. "A journalist? This is too much!" To Johnny he rasped, "Are you aware, sir, that New Plymouth is under martial law?"

"I had heard that," Johnny confessed. "I was hoping to have a firsthand look at today's action, if I could tag along as an observer-" He resisted the impulse to add, "Like Colonel De Lancey."

William interposed quickly, "Mr Broome's name is well known to the public in Auckland; we shall wish to show him every courtesy. As we have done for the editor of the_ Taranaki News_, who was also present at this meeting."

"The _Taranaki News _has been made well aware of the requirements of censorship," Gold growled. He again turned his dudgeon on Johnny. "I ought to have you arrested, sir! I've a mind to!"

Johnny restrained his anger. "There is no censorship in Auckland," he said coolly, "and if I am not allowed to accompany the Sixty-fifth, it is my intention to ride with the Mounted Volunteers."

"You will do no such thing!" Gold stormed. "You will remain in New Plymouth – under guard, if necessary – and Captain Brown will be given orders to that effect. Do I make myself clear?"

"Exceedingly so," Johnny replied, and turned on his heel and left before his temper could get the better of him.

William caught up with him outside a few minutes later. "I calmed Gold down somewhat," he told Johnny, "but you'd best keep out of his way. I'll be your eyes and ears, and in the meantime you can wander around town and pick up what you can here. You'll find plenty of people willing to talk about Colonel Gold, I assure you."

"The man must be insane," Johnny fumed, "to split up his forces like that – send the Volunteers overland, while the troops travel the main road where their progress may be observed from behind any tree. An enemy would be hard put to divide them, and here's Gold gone and done their work for them."

"Colonel Gold does not regard the Volunteers as part of his forces," William said resignedly, "but rather as a cross he has to bear. Granted, most of them are not properly trained or equipped – they're lacking in discipline and, for the most part, are armed with old rifles. Still-" William shrugged. "They are eager enough. The displaced settlers and those who are waiting for land to be allocated have joined up to a man. They've got all the pluck in the world, and quite a few of them are good bushmen and excellent shots. _And_ they understand the terrain, as Gold does not."

"And if they run into trouble?" Johnny asked.

"I pray that they will not. But the Maoris aren't fools, whatever Gold may think of them. Somehow, I don't think they'll wait behind their palisades for the Sixty-fifth to attack them. However, we shall see." William repeated his shrug. "As a mere observer, I'm not permitted to offer an opinion, Johnny."

Johnny frowned. "Good grief, Will, don't they know who you are, what you've done?"

"It has been mentioned," William conceded. He unhitched his horse and swung up into the saddle. "I had better find Brown and Atkinson, or they'll leave without me."

Johnny watched him ride off, a tall, straight figure with a semi-automatic holstered near his left leg, where it could be fired one-handed. He saw Atkinson's blue-shirted machine-gunmen, about fifty strong, open their ranks to let him through, and then William was riding with Captain Brown and Brown's adjutant, Stapp, to lead the way across the overland route.

Johnny turned his head to follow the progress of the 65th. Lieutenant Colonel George Murray seemed to be having some trouble getting his column formed up. The _Niger_'s marines wrestled with a ton of gun and truck another ton of ammunition, while the rocket launcher crew, their awkward weapon dismantled and shouldered, fell in behind the redcoats. At last all was in readiness, and the infantry marched smartly off, to the shrill accompaniment of regimental pipes, while the townspeople lined the road to watch.

In a few minutes they were out of sight round a bend. Johnny lingered, mingling with the townspeople to hear their comments, and then, catching sight Colonel Gold coming in his direction, took William's advice to keep out of his way, and left to seek the views of his colleagues on the _Taranaki News._

A glint of metal on a hilltop caught William's attention, and when, surveying the spot with his eyes shaded against the noon sun, he saw movement, he leaned over in the saddle and touched Captain Brown's arm.

"They're watching our progress from the hills," he informed the Volunteer officer. "They've been following us all morning."

Captain Stapp, the adjutant, swore under his breath. "What the devil are they waiting for?" he exploded. "There must be enough of them up there by now to outnumber us, and we can't move very freely with the horses through this tangle."

"They can see the Sixty-fifth on the coastal road from up there, too," William surmised. "They're waiting until our separation from Colonel Murray is to their liking."

Talk ceased as the horses scrambled up the steep side of a ravine, and William clung on to stay in the saddle. It was the second difficult ravine the Volunteers had crossed this morning; the land between Mount Egmont and the shore was riven by deep gullies that carried off the floods. The enmeshing bush was intimidating to those used to the tamer landscapes of Europe, and the British military had decided long before Colonel Gold that bush fighting was to be avoided at all costs, and was best left to the Maoris and the settlers.

As the horsemen attained the top of the ridge, followed by the sweating riflemen, William saw the glint of brown bodies trickling through the gorges, passing under the green foliage from cover to cover and at last coming to rest in concealment. The ravines looked innocent again, but everybody who had seen that secret inundation knew what it meant.

"They've taken possession of the gullies," Brown cried in frustration. "Ahead and behind. We're cut off."

As if to emphasize the seriousness of their position, a shot rang out and a Volunteer cried out in surprise as a bullet creased him. "Take cover!" William shouted, forgetting that he had no authority, and the mounted contingent slid off their horses and led them to less exposed positions, while Atkinson's men spread out and disposed themselves behind trees and bracken. In a very few minutes the air was thick with flying bullets, and two more men had been wounded, despite the dense cover.

Harry Atkinson slithered through the underbrush and came to the spot where William lay concealed with Brown. "I've told my lads to be frugal with their shots and not to fire unless they have a target," he said grimly. "We were issued only thirty rounds a man." His voice was bitter. "We weren't supposed to do any fighting, you see. Colonel Murray was supposed to see to our protection."

"Murray will hear the shooting," Brown said confidently. "He can't be more than a couple of miles away. All we have to do is hang on until he sends a relief force."

But an hour and more passed, and there was no sign of a sally by Colonel Murray. William watched as the Volunteers fought on alone, and he was impressed by their courage and daring. Atkinson was a natural leader of men, and, exposing himself to danger as he moved from position to position, he saw to it that his recruits made their few shots count.

"Where is Murray?" Captain Stapp groaned.

"I think," William said, rising to his feet, "that I had better go and fetch him."

"Colonel De Lancey, you cannot!" Captain Brown exclaimed. "You'll be riding into a hail of fire, and-" He broke off with a glance at William's pinned sleeve. "It's a job for someone younger and more fit."

But William was already in the saddle, gathering up the reins. "I'm the most easily spared," he asserted with black humour, "I'm only an observer." He gave the spurs to his animal and, lying low along his horse's neck, crashed out of the underbrush down the slope. It was a temptation to proceed directly down the ridge towards the beach, but that would have made him too prominent a target, and one to be picked off at leisure. It was better to depend on speed and surprise. The horse plunged straight into the ravine, whinnying with fear, while William hung on with all his might. Then he was in among the startled warriors, close enough to see the expressions on their tattooed and painted faces. He rode deliberately through one group, scattering them, and wishing for his right arm so that he might lay about him with sabre. Then, turning his steed, he was racing along the bottom of the ravine, splashing through the thin rivulet there, towards the sea, while disorganized fire came from behind him.

Having attained the beach, more than a mile away, he galloped across the packed sands until, on the coastal road ahead, he saw the long splash of crimson that marked Murray's column. They were marching along in a marvellously disciplined manner, but they hadn't made much progress. He cantered along beside the line of tramping soldiers toiling under their heavy packs until he found Murray. In a few terse words, he explained the situation, and said urgently, "The Volunteers are effectively pinned down, Colonel. They can't move until those ravines are cleared out … and if that is not done, when they run out of ammunition, there will be a slaughter."

Murray, to his credit, responded promptly. He summoned a subaltern and ordered, "Lieutenant Urquhart, you will take thirty men and go to the aid of the Volunteers. You will provide cover and enable them to retire."

"They don't want to retire, Colonel," William said, puzzled over Murray's choice of words. "They only need some relief. When you begin your attack on the _pa _at Waireka, the sound of the firing will provide the diversion needed to draw off the hill parties. Then we can cut across the remaining terrain and join you, as Colonel Gold ordered."

Colonel Murray seemed not to have heard him. He turned to frown at the rocket launcher party from the _Niger_. They had set down their burden and were coming towards William and drawn cutlasses. "Here, you, men! What are you up to?" Murray barked at them.

Their officer, a boyish-faced lieutenant, grinned and said, "We thought we'd go along for the fight, sir."

"Get back to your weapon at once," Murray growled, "This is a military operation, not a schoolboy game, and you are under my orders. I shall have words with Captain Cracroft about this, and if your men desert their post again, I shall recommend a rope's end for them."

Chagrined, the young naval officer collected his men and led them back, amid protests, to shoulder the components of the Congreve launching mechanism once more.

William guided Urquhart and his redcoats to a vantage point between the first two gullies, having to argue the lieutenant out of his intention to take an easy route along the ridge, which would have left them silhouetted against the skyline and made them tempting targets. At the first hint of ragged firing, Urquhart, to William's amazement, formed the men up and had them fire a volley from a kneeling position, as if they were facing an enemy in formal ranks. The bullets flew into the forest towards unseen targets, but the manoeuvre, repeated several times, seemed to work. The Maoris retreated from the ravines and maintained a desultory siege from farther away, no doubt biding their time.

William made it back to the Volunteers' position with only a few stray bullets to dodge, and reported to Captain Brown.

"What, retreat?" Captain Brown remonstrated. "That can't be. You must have misunderstood him. We have only to hold these fellows off for an hour or two, until they hear the twelve-pounder and the rocket launcher battering at the outer fence of their precious _pa_. Then they'll leave quickly enough to defend their village, and we'll be able to get our wounded out of here while the rest of us join the main fight."

He paused to listen to the uneven firing from the hilltops. Harry Atkinson, mildly profligate of his remaining ammunition now that Urquhart had arrived, allowed his men to get off one answering round apiece.


	8. Chapter Seven

VII

The double doors leading to the next section of the tomb swung open with an appropriately deep and querulous creaking groan.

"I really wish they hadn't done that," Peri commented nervously. Images from any number of horror films kept popping into her thoughts, reminding her of the traditional fate reserved for tomb robbers – or even those like ourselves, who were merely passing through, as it were.

The Doctor sighed. "I trust you are not going to continue to jump at every shadow."

"Okay, Doctor, don't rub it in."

The doors opened onto a broad flight of stairs, leading up into the darkness. We ascended cautiously until we reached another set of doors, which were closed but not sealed. These opened almost silently, compared to the first set, revealing a larger space beyond. I swung my torch about the interior of the new chamber. "Wow – jackpot!" I exclaimed.

The room was circular, perhaps twenty metres across, with a coffered, hemispherical roof vault, some eight or nine metres at its highest. From the chamber's contents, there was no doubt of its function. In every item my torch beam touched I seemed to see the answering flicker of gold, the pale glow of alabaster or the contrast of ivory inlaid on ebony. There were statues, figurines, gilded pots and jars, decorated caskets and chests of all sizes, highly ornamented chairs, couches and stools. Some of the furniture incorporated stylized animal heads embodied in their frameworks or as decorations, and I found the jewelled eyes of caricatured koalas, kangaroos and crocodiles twinkling back at me from the confusion of riches.

I wandered entranced down an aisle between the stacks of priceless relics until I came to a clear space in the very centre of the room, which was marked by a concentric pattern set in mosaic on the floor. Here I turned around, dizzy with the sensation of discovery. I was surrounded by the most fabulous collection of ancient funerary goods I had ever seen. This was how Howard Carter must have felt entering Tutankamen's tomb, I thought, except that Tutankamen's tomb was a garden shed by comparison. History in the making, the splendour of the ancient world. Then my sense of perspective caught up with me. This was not history. The king in whose honour all this had been assembled had only died a few years ago. Most of the artists and craftsmen who had fashioned these exquisite things were probably still alive, in the here-and-now I was presently occupying. I sighed, feeling confused. The Doctor had said that everything was relative, and the TARDIS certainly proved it. But did it make my surroundings any less wonderful to know that, metaphorically speaking, the paint was still wet around the edges?

I looked about myself again, noting a second aisle winding between the stacks of treasure. "Hey, Doctor," I called out. "There's another of those fancy doors here with the rope seals and so on. Wonder where it goes to?"

"Probably to the burial chamber itself, I would think."

"Oh. Well, we'll leave that be, then."

"Look at this," said the Doctor. He had also been examining the treasure whilst I had been lost in my thoughts. Now he was shining his torch on one particular item. I crossed over to him and brought my own torch to bear.

It was an exquisitely detailed model of the king's royal ship. But instead of sails, or oars, there were twin propellars. From the deck rose a tall funnel.

"I guess there's no doubt about it," said Peri. "We have definitely slipped sideways in time, into one of those parallel worlds you told us about."

"The Doctor's face was contorted into an intense scowl of concentrated thought. "It would seem so, and yet, I'm not certain."

"Aw, come on, Doctor, what else can it be?" I asked.

"There should have been some indication on the console readings-"

"After the way they've been knocked about, and with the low power and all?" asked Peri.

"Perhaps, perhaps," the Doctor mused. "I suppose we shall simply have to explore beyond this tomb and discover what lies outside."

"The good old empirical method," Peri chipped in.

"We assume it is Sydney," continued the Doctor, "but what version of Sydney will it be, if we have truly entered a parallel time-line?" He raised an expressive, quizzical eyebrow at us.

"Well, let's get out there and find out, huh? The suspense is killing me." I turned towards the door we had come through.

"No, not that way. Look at the roof," said the Doctor.

Puzzled, I pointed my torch upwards. Amongst the radiating ribs and recessed panels that formed the ceiling were four slotted openings, spaced evenly around the curve of the dome, and about half way to its apex. When I moved my torch beam to one side, I could see a distant gleam of skylight, as though from the end of a long, narrow shaft. "What are they, ventilators?"

"They would perform that function when the tomb was being built, certainly," said the Doctor.

"Well, they might be fine for air to slip through, but no way are we going to make it. They can't be much over six inches wide," said Peri.

"Remember the molecular cutter. I can use that to widen the aperture," said the Doctor.

"But those shafts beyond must be at least five or six metres long," said Peri. "That's a lot of rock, Doctor, and the cutter doesn't cut all that deep at one go, does it? Why can't we just go out through the ante-chamber door? It would manage that easy."

"Because it is most unlikely that the door simply opens out onto the street," replied the Doctor. "And if it did, think of the attention we would draw if we suddenly emerged from the tomb. Until there is evidence to the contrary, we must assume there is a busy city outside, which we would be well-advised to inspect from a distance first. In any case, it's probable that there are more doors and passages beyond the ante-chamber pair, all of which will be barred, sealed and even buried. Considering this tomb is relatively new, they might be guarded or perhaps open into a secondary chapel in current use-"

"Okay, Doctor, you've sold us," I said. "But it's still going to mean a lot of digging."

"The Doctor beamed, like an overgrown schoolboy with a secret. "Possibly not. Everything we have seen indicates a fusion of different cultures. This vault is not English, but an advanced colonial design."

"So?" I asked. "I can still see a lot of stonework between us and the outside, There has to be if we're inside some sort of pyramid."

"Perhaps it looks like a pyramid on the outside, but I doubt if the colonists would go to the trouble of constructing it of solid stone. I don't think a chamber this size could support the weight if that were so..." said the Doctor.

Peri and I were beginning to catch on. "You mean it's hollow?" asked Peri.

"There's a good chance that at least the upper part is but, as you said earlier, we must be empirical about the matter," said the Doctor. "Let's get a ladder and find out."

Ten minutes later, we were shifting several priceless pieces of furniture to make a space under one of the vent slots. I was horrified at the thought of damaging anything, but also increasingly annoyed with the makers of the more substantial pieces for not having learned how to build anything lightweight. This, I suspected, had not troubled the king, who probably had people in to do his removals.

Eventually the space was made, and I gratefully flopped down on a chaise-lounge style couch, uncaring about what the previous owner would have thought of the liberty. "Phew! Is it hot or cold in here, I can't tell?"

The Doctor was mopping his brow with a large white handkerchief. "It's a trifle enervating, I admit. Possibly the rather dead air in here ..." he coughed "...and the dust doesn't help." He blew his nose loudly. "Anyway, we must get on. There will be plenty of fresh air outside."

The ladder the Doctor had brought from the TARDIS, I discovered, was an ordinary aluminium extending type that I could have found in any hardware store back in my own time. It even bore a well-known brand name. Propped up against the lower lip of the vent shaft, it seemed oddly out of place, symbolising the mass production ethos of another age, standing as it did amongst uniquely handmade goods. By further contrast, the molecular cutter the Doctor was checking over represented the science of a time perhaps as far removed from my own as I was from the 19th century. A hand-held projector unit, in the form of a thick silver tube, was connected to a heavy rectangular energizer unit by a coiled cable. It made not sound when it operated, but Peri said it could cut through most materials like the proverbial hot knife through butter. As a bonus, it could also re-bond them invisibly afterwards. A neat trick, I thought.

The Doctor clipped the unit to his belt and ascended the ladder, while Peri and I steadied its feet. He reached the vent and we could hear him muttering to himself in apparent satisfaction. "Stand clear below!" he ordered dramatically. There was a moment's silence, then a scrape of stone over stone and a slice of colonial concrete roof vault broke on the floor.

For the next few minutes there was a steady rain of such fragments. Peri and I could see the Doctor was cutting away one side of the narrow vent shaft so it was wide enough to take his shoulders, whistling tunelessly as he worked. He came down the ladder, adjusted it so that it projected further into the excavation, and ran back up again.

He was up to his waist in the hole when there came the crash of a heavy slab falling all of a piece. "Are you okay?" I called up anxiously, only to see the Doctor's legs disappearing through the hole.

There was a long silence, then: "Come up and take a look." He sounded pleased with himself.

Cautiously, Peri and I climbed the ladder, torches in hands. I felt a momentary dizziness half way up, and had to take a few deliberate deep breaths. I really will be glad to get out of this place, I thought. Reaching the hole the Doctor had cut in the roof, I found the cause of his satisfaction. He is going to be insufferably smug for having worked this out, I told myself.

The dome was, I estimated, about a metre thick where the vent shaft pierced it. A fine wire mesh, presumably to keep out insects, had been cut away to reveal the shaft beyond, which was formed of relatively thin slabs of stone bound together by metal cramps and straps, and supported by heavy timbers. I could tell this because one of the side slabs, the one I had heard fall, was missing, revealing a void beyond, from which came the flash of the Doctor's torch. Peri and I scrambled through, scraping our knees, and found ourselves in a space resembling a huge attic. A forest of posts and struts, braced against the curve of the dome, supported the rafters of a great sloping roof, which faded into the gloom on either side of us. It was the inner face of side of a pyramid.

"Interesting construction methods," said the Doctor, who was squatting on the curve of the dome, playing his torch beam over the interior. "Finely dressed limestone slab facing, with inner joints sealed and bedded with pitch and sand-"

"Spare us the lecture, Doctor," said Peri. "We can see it's all very clever, but where do we go now?"

"Downwards," said the Doctor. "There is a level floor where the dome ends. And we can reach the base of he pyramid wall. Then it should only mean cutting away a section of a relatively thin slab to reach the outside."

"But where will we be then?" I asked.

"On the roof of a temple, I rather think," replied the Doctor.

"Well anywhere's better than in here," said Peri, scratching irritably at some grit that seemed to have gone down the back of her shirt. "I just want to see some daylight!"

A minute later we were standing on a level floor at the base of the dome, amid the chippings and scraps of builders' waste, and the Doctor was cutting a neat ovoid out of the middle of the lowest wall slab. It came free and we eased it to the ground. Low morning sunlight flooded in through the opening. We squinted against the brightness, breathing in the fresh air gratefully. Even the Doctor, I noticed, seemed to be glad of the change.

Beyond a guttering channel was an expanse of flat stone-slab roof, broken only by a flat-topped structure walled by fretted stonework, rather like a simple skylight. Other wise there was no sign of movement, except for a few birds wheeling in a blue sky, dotted with a few puffy clouds.

We slipped through the hole and stood upright. I realized that the pyramid cap of the tomb rose from the middle of a great square expanse of roof, presumably of the surrounding temple building. The Doctor was looking around him in satisfaction.

"Yes. Quasi-British design, you see, but executed with colonial techniques of detailing and construction," said the Doctor.

As we walked away from the wall of the pyramid, the skyline of Sydney unrolled before us. We lay flat as we reached the edge and I peered cautiously over a low parapet to the ground some fifteen or eighteen metres below. A broad flight of steps led down from the colonnade fronting the temple to a wide, stone flagged plaza, presently occupied by pedestrians dressed in variously coloured coats and dresses. I edged back a little. It wouldn't so to be seen up here just yet, I thought.

Judging by the sun we were facing almost due south, so the king's tomb was set on a hill to the north and east of the centre of Sydney. I could see the line of the Parramatta snaking off across the plains to our right, crossed by several bridges leading to a sprawl of buildings flowing up the hills on the further bank. I was surprised how small the city itself seemed, no more than five kilometres across at the most, I estimated. Its centre was a confusion of broad plazas and rows of monumental columns and the great angular roofs of churches, all lying along different axes. Towards the outskirts, the streets seemed to narrow, twisting between blocks of apartments, three or four storeys high, with a few grander buildings dotted between them. One large, cube-like structure stood out distinctly. Was it a university or a museum, I wondered?

It was some moments before the details that were out of place registered, because in other circumstances they would have been quite unremarkable.

"Doctor, do those poles running along that street down there look like they're carrying electricity cables – and are they anything to do with those, uh, street lamps I think I can see next to them?" I asked.

"Yes, I believe they are," replied the Doctor. "And have you noticed the roof of that large building to the left of the park?"

"Oh, yeah, the one with the radio aerials on, you mean...hmm," said Peri.

"And look out over the plain to the west."

Our eyes followed the line of the multiple arches of an aqueduct that marched out toward the distant hills. There were a lot of buildings in the far distance, with smoke rising from them, like a small industrial works. Then we saw what the Doctor meant. About two kilometres from the city, the long, thin body of an aeroplane sat on a long strip of concrete. Suddenly I realized what one of the background shapes in the ante-room frieze had been. It had been oddly distorted, and I supposed they must have been quite new at the time and given the artist some trouble.

"These guys have sure been busy," I stated. "But how long has it taken them? I mean, when did they take off on a different track of history? If those paintings on the walls downstairs are right, then that battle was the turning point. So whatever it was must have happened not long before that, right?" The Doctor inclined his head politely in agreement with my reasoning. "But," I continued, "that means in less than twenty-five years, say, they've also invented electricity generation, aeroplanes, radio and who knows what else? Even if what we see is all they've got, it's quite an achievement."

"Well," the Doctor replied, "this culture was probably more prepared, technically, to take the first steps of a technological revolution, than Northern Europe was forty-five years later. But I agree, this is far too much progress in such a short space of time for it to be natural. They must be working from finished designs. Consider all the painful years of research and development that would save."

"But how? And who, or why?" I asked.

"That, we will have to find out," replied the Doctor.

"Still, it's some short-cut," I conceded.

"But dangerous," he responded, grimly. "Your own age can hardly keep pace with a constant stream of technological changes and the social and ethical problems arising from them. Ability must not outstrip wisdom. What all this might do to these people, I shudder to think!"

I thought I had never seen him look so grave. I tried to sound a brighter note.  
"Well, at least they seem to have power going spare down there. Maybe we can tap into some to recharge the TARDIS?"

"Yes, that must be our next step. Then, well, we shall see." He started to work away from the roof edge. "First, of course, we must get down to the ground."

Peri was sitting upright, scratching again. "Say, do you think there were any bugs in the tomb?" she asked, rolling up the sleeve of her shirt. "I seem to be -"

She gave a little choking gasp of fear.

Fine, dark feathers were growing out of her forearm.

She looked at the Doctor in mute horror. He was at her side in an instant, clasping her hand with firm reassurance. "It's all right, Peri. Let's get back to the TARDIS. Don't worry."

Convulsively, Peri tore open the top of her shirt with her free hand. A diamond patch of feathers was spreading across her sternum and down between her breasts. She was trembling with shock. "V-Varos..." she stuttered shrilly. It's Varos again!"

"Varos?" I asked.

"A while ago we were on Varos, originally a prison planet that then functioned as a government system where voting was mandatory and torture and executions were televised," the Doctor explained. "The Governor decreed that I be executed in an "old-fashioned" way, hanging from nooses, while Peri was subjected to undergo horrific scientific experiments at the hands of Quillam and his cell mutator. At the gallows, at the last moment, I questioned the Governor about Sil and his extortion while offering to help in the Zeiton-7 matter, causing Sil to order his bodyguards to rush the platform to pull the lever to silence me. But it turned out the execution was actually a farce to extract information out of me. I had suspected this and agreeed to help Varos on the condition that Peri be returned unharmed. However, Quillan refused, even under duress, forcing me to resort to shooting the entire control panel. Luckily, the process has been halted in time, and the mutations were only temporary, and Peri soon returned to her original self."

With an effort, the Doctor and I got Peri to her feet and, half carrying her, we helped her stagger back towards the hole in the pyramid wall.

Then, just as we reached it, we heard the Doctor mumble: "Sorry, but I don't think I feel quite..." And his legs buckled and he collapsed forward and lay motionless at our feet.

For a terrible moment we stared at him uncomprehendingly, our minds reeling under the double shock. Then I knelt down, feebly tugging at the arm of his coat, "No, p-please, Doctor – not now! We need you to help Peri."

There was no response. I heaved and managed to roll him over onto his back.

The face staring up at us was that of a younger man, with thin, sensitive features and paler, straight flaxen hair.

"That's the face the Doctor wore when I first met him," said Peri.

I just blinked at her.


	9. Chapter 8

**So, while Peri is turning back into a bird and the Doctor has regressed into his fifth body, and Anita is wondering what on earth she's got herself into, down in the Tasman Sea, another drama is unfolding...**

**VIII**

The _Indus _left Hobart in brilliant sunshine, and two days out, in the Tasman Sea, there was scarcely a cloud in the blue arc of sky. With only a faint breeze to speed her on her way, she was proceeding under the engines at a steady eight knots, expecting within a few hours to sight the coast of mainland Australia.

Seated beside her mother on the poop deck, Grace Ferrier reflected thankfully that their long voyage was almost over. It had been, all things considered, a trying voyage, although the kindly old master, Captain Clifford, and his officers and crew had done all in their power to ensure the comfort and well-being of the passengers.

But there was so denying that the _Indus _was old and unweatherly, and the storms they had met with during the passage had not contributed to the enjoyment of any, from the emigrant families between decks to the convicts crowded within the dark, airless confines of the orlop. And the soldiers had fared little better … Grace sighed. The convicts had bee set ashore at Fremantle, Western Australia, and some of the soldiers had moved into their quarters, in preference to their own – Samuel Gibbs among them.

Grace cast an anxious glance at her mother. Margaret Hunter's health had benefited little from the sea air by which their family doctor had set much store. All too frequently the inclement weather had rendered to open deck untenable for the passengers, and gale-force winds – both before and after calling at the Cape – coupled with extreme cold in what Samuel Gibbs had told her was forty-six degrees of south latitude, and a storm in the Great Australian Bight, had necessitated virtual imprisonment in her cabin for the poor sufferer, often for days on end.

But at least, Grace told herself wryly, dancing attendance on her invalid mother had spared her from having to endure Marcus Fisher's company and his increasingly unwelcome attempts to pay court to her. She did not like Marcus Fisher, and her sentiments were, she knew, shared by the _Indus' _officers, her other passengers, and the unfortunate soldiers under his command. She had formed her opinion of him after inadvertently witnessing the barbaric punishment he had inflicted on Samuel Gibbs, and … She flushed guiltily, as she saw the soldiers muster for the daily inspection on the fo'c'sle, and recognized Samuel, when he fell in, as marker, in the front rank.

Captain Fisher did not know of the clandestine friendship that had grown up between herself and the man he had flogged that morning, and, Grace thought, if it killed her, she would never allow him to discover her secret. Moved by pity and greatly daring, she had obtained the ship's surgeon's permission to visit Samuel Gibbs in the sick bay, and had found him, as she had initially suspected, to be a gentleman. More of a gentleman, certainly, than Captain Marcus Fisher.

Dr. Farrar had kept his patient in the sick bay for almost two weeks, refusing to permit him to return to duty, despite Marcus Fisher's demands. With the doctor's connivance – nay, his encouragement, for he, too, had been moved by pity – she had made her visits to the sick bay a daily occurrence.

"The poor young fellow needs womanly sympathy," Dr. Farrar had told her. "I don't know his story, Ms Ferrier, but I can hazard a pretty shrewd guess that he comes of good family and has met with some traumatic misfortune. It might do him good to speak of it, and perhaps you might be able to persuade him to do so. Captain Fisher insists that he is a deserter from the Royal Navy, but this I take leave to doubt."

She had not succeeded in her efforts to persuade Samuel to confide in her, Grace thought regretfully, but he had told her part of his story – the bare facts that he had been a commissioned officer, a lieutenant, in the navy, and been tried by court martial for the loss of his ship, and sentenced to be cashiered. No more than that. He had not told her his real name or the circumstances that had led to his trial, yet … she had sensed that he had found some solace in telling her even as little as he had. Their friendship had grown from those visits to the sick bay, and after Dr. Farrar had finally and with reluctance discharged him, Samuel had found ways of seeing her, Grace knew – always discreetly. Her mother had no inkling of the social _gaffe _her daughter, a first-class cabin passenger, was committing in even making contact with a common soldier; still less did she imagine that, on one occasion, her daughter had joined the soldiers and the seamen on the fo'c'sle when they had held an impromtu concert, singing and dancing to the music of fiddles and a kettledrum.

She smiled, remembering how lighthearted she had felt and how carefully Samuel had guarded her from any prying eyes on the quarterdeck or poop and, equally carefully, from any attempt on the part of the other men to take liberties with her. And she had enjoyed herself, listening to the sea chanties the sailors had sung and watching them demonstrate the dancing of the hornpipe, with folded arms and tapping heels as the old ship – finding, that night, a favourable wind – had glided ghostlike over the still, dark waters of the Indian Ocean.

There had not been very many nights like that, but she remembered every one, and looking back now, Grace realized it had been Samuel's presence, his company, that had made them memorable. Not that he had paid court to her. His attitude had been unfailingly correct; he had addressed her always as 'Ms Ferrier,' and even on the few occasions when they had been alone together, he had never overstepped the bounds of propriety. She – the colour rose to her cheeks at the thought, but it was true – she had more than once wished that he had paid less heed to the present difference in their social positions, for he attracted her strongly.

A hand fell on her shoulder, and a voice that had become all too familiar greeted her by name.

"Ah, Ms Grace! I trust this fine morning finds your lady mother improved in health and yourself, as always, blooming?"

It was Marcus Fisher, smiling down at her ingratiatingly, and Grace recoiled. She had supposed him to be engaged in his troop inspection on the fo's'cle, but seemingly he had left that task to Ensign Edwards this morning, for he was in undress uniform and bareheaded, while the soldiers were standing rigidly to attention, the sergeants passing up and down between their ranks.

Annoyed that his sudden appearance had caught her unprepared, Grace reddened, and to her relief her mother answered the young captain's overeffusive inquiry.

"I am feeling very much better, thank you, Captain Fisher," Margaret Hunter said politely. "Although, I confess, I shall be thankful when we reach Sydney. It has seemed a very long voyage to one unaccustomed to the sea, but my daughter has been wonderfully good to me. Indeed" - she clasped Grace's hand warmly - "I do not know what I should have done without her."

"Ms Grace's devotion to you is wholly admirable, Mrs. Hunter," Marcus Fisher affirmed. He drew up a chair and seated himself, uninvited, at Grace's side. "It is my hope, ma'am, that our acquaintance may continue after we disembark. Although, from the talk in Hobart Town, it appears not improbable that my stay in Sydney will be brief. Four companies of my regiment have been sent to New Zealand to aid in quelling a Maori rebellion there. I shall undoubtedly have to follow, with my draft, if the rebellion continues or if it should develop into a full-scale war."

If he had expected sympathy from either mother or herself, he did not receive it, Grace thought, pleased. She herself said nothing, but her mother, with a beaming smile, observed quietly, "That will offer you the chance of military glory, won't it, Captain Fisher? Like all ambitious young officer, that is what you seek, I feel sure."

A trifle nonplussed, Marcus Fisher agreed that, of course, all he had ever wanted was the opportunity to serve his country.

"My men will acquit themselves well, Mrs. Hunter," he added, with more enthusiasm. "So often on a long voyage they become slack, and discipline suffers. But I have made sure that they have been kept up to the mark. If this voyage had done nothing else, it has shown them that I will tolerate no slackness."

It had indeed, Grace reflected without humour. Samuel Gibbs had not been the only soldier to suffer a flogging, and she knew, from the little he had seen fit to tell her, that Captain Fisher was universally despised and hated by his men. Certainly Fisher's claim to have kept them up to the mark was no exaggeration. No matter what the weather, they had been drilled daily on the fo'c'sle, constantly subjected to kit inspections, and, when their commander could devise no military exercises for the, they had been ordered to assist in the working of the ship, allocated to regular watches, which left them little time for leisure. Samuel, she knew, had been detailed to toil in the engine room with the stokers when the engines were in use, and all the men had had to assist in coaling, when the _Indus' _bunkers had been replenished at the Cape, at Fremantle, and again at Hobart.

"I do not doubt, Captain Fisher," she heard her mother say, with a faint hint of sarcasm in her soft, pleasant voice, "that your commanding officer will be gratified when he learns how constantly you have carried out your duties." The sarcasm was lost on Marcus Fisher, who beamed with pleasure at what he took to be a compliment, and Margaret Hunter leaned forward to touch Grace's arm. "I am afraid, dear child, that the sun has gone in. Let us go below, shall we? Now that we are so nearly at the end of our passage, I do not want to risk catching a chill."

The sun had, in fact, only disappeared briefly behind a small cloud, but grateful for her mother's intervention, Grace rose at once to her feet.

"Of course, Mama," she echoed eagerly. "Take my arm, won't you? It _is _becoming a trifle chilly."

In the privacy of her cabin, Mrs. Hunter turned to her daughter with a quizzical smile.

"Grace dear," she admonished, with mock severity, "did you have to make it quite so evident to poor Captain Fisher that his attentions were unwelcome?"

"I would not treat anyone else like that, Mama," Grace protested. "But I find Captain Fisher – oh, I find him an odious person!"

"He is not the most likeable of young men," her mother conceded. "A braggart and one who is full of self-esteem. Oh, don't worry, child, I am not reproaching you. Indeed, I am relieved that your response to Captain Fisher's advances was so discouraging. But whilst I have spent most of my days lying here, I have observed that you have frequently come below with your eyes like stars and a blush on your cheek, and I … well, I wondered, Grace."

Grace's blush was betrayal, but she attempted to hide her confusion, hastily turning her back and crossing to the porthole to look out at the blue-grey expanse of water, which was all that was to be seen. In a muffled voice, she asked defensively, "What did you wonder, Mama?"

Margaret Hunter sighed. "I wondered whether, in the absence of my chaperonage, you had permitted yourself to become enamoured of one of our fellow passengers – or a member of the crew. Captain Fisher appeared to be the most likely, since he was always somewhere about, paying you extravagant compliments, when I was able to bear you company on deck or in the saloon. I freely confess, dearest Grace, that I am thankful to see with my own eyes that you have _not _responded to his advances."

"I would never respond to them, Mama," Grace declared, "if he were the last man on earth! Truly, I cannot stand him."

"But there is some young man on board who has taken your fancy, isn't there?" her mother persisted. "Come, child, I know you too well to be deceived. Is it Captain Fisher's second-in-command, young Ensign Edwards?"

Grace did not turn round, contenting herself with an emphatic headshake. "No, Mama. Alan Edwards is very pleasant, but – oh, he is just a boy. I talk to him at meals and on deck sometimes, but that's all." And Marcus Fisher, she thought, made sure that it _was _all the contact Ensign Edwards had with her; the boy was sent to attend to some duty or other if he ventured to say more than two words to her. But … She flashed an uncertain glance at her mother's face, seeking to guess, from the expression it bore, how much – or how little – was suspected concerning her feelings. She had always been close to her mother, and there was a deep bond of affection between them. Grace was the eldest daughter of the family, and her brother was now making his way in the world. James had emigrated to Canada with their younger sister Alexandrina.

"Well?" Margaret Hunter prompted gently. "Is there a young man, Grace?"

She could not tell her mother the whole truth, Grace though, seized by sudden panic. Her mother came of a generation that subscribed to rigid class barriers, and Samuel Gibbs – whatever he had been before their meeting on board the _Indus – _was now serving in the ranks of Her Majesty's 40th Regiment and probably, at this moment, was on his way to the ship's nether regions to spend the next four hours shovelling coal, stripped to the waist and covered in black dust.

Anxious to spare her mother anxiety and herself from a lecture on propriety, she sought to evade the question.

"There's no one in particular, Mama. I'm – well, I've enjoyed our passage, apart from the storms, of course. The other passengers are exceedingly kind and friendly, especially old Mr. Cassell and his wife and Major and Mrs. Ashe. Mr. Cassell was telling me about the early days in New South Wales – he went out as a sheep farmer, twenty years ago. It's a shame that you've been too unwell to get to know them properly, because they are such pleasant company. I've learnt a lot about Australia from all of them. Now" - she sought to change the subject - "do you feel up to taking luncheon in the cuddy, Mama? Or shall I ask the steward to serve you here?"

Her tactic succeeded. Mrs. Hunter considered the question and finally shook her head to the suggestion of joining their fellow passengers for luncheon.

"I don't think I'm _quite_ up to that yet, Grace," she admitted. "Ask the steward, if you will, please. Tell him I want only a very light luncheon. Some broth, perhaps, and a few fingers of toast. If the weather continues like this, I might sit on deck again during the afternoon. I'm sure the sea air does me good."

The steward, however, dashed her hopes. "The glass is falling, ma'am, and the wind's veering westerly," he said, setting down the tray Mrs. Hunter had asked for. "Bin a real bad passage for storms, this has, an' no mistake. And I reckon we're in for another before we make port in Sydney. You bide here, ma'am, because it won't be long before it hits us."

Grace and her mother exchanged dismayed glances.

"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Hunter exclaimed, unable to hide her disappointment. "It was such a beautiful morning. I thought all our troubles were over."

"That's the way of it in these parts," the steward told her glumly. "One minute there's no wind to speak of, an' the next it's blowing a gale." He tucked his napkin under his arm and looked inquiringly at Grace. "Would you like me to serve your luncheon in the cabin, miss? It'll be no trouble."

Grace hesitated. She had prided herself on having become a good sailor during the long voyage, but … perhaps she would be as well not to tempt providence by taking her meal in the saloon, which was stuffy and airless, and made the more so by smoke from Major Ashe's pipe and old Mr. Cassell's cigars, when inclement weather drove them down from the deck.

"Thank you, Simmonds," she answered, accepting the old steward's advice. "If it really is no trouble, I'll have my lunch in the cabin."

"Very wise, if I may say so, miss," Simmonds approved. "I'll be along with your tray right away."

He was as good as his word, but Grace had scarcely sampled her first course when the ship started to pitch violently, its ancient timbers ominously creaking as the wind rose, whipping the hitherto calm sea to sudden fury. Robbed of every vestige of appetite by the _Indus' _unpleasant motion, she put her tray aside and, having made sure that her mother was warmly tucked up in her cot, sought the sanctuary of her own bed, pulling the blankets about her and closing her eyes.

Lying thus, she felt better and her nausea gradually eased, and after a while she drifted into a light, uneasy sleep.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Now, we'll find out why the Doctor regressed to his fifth form and Peri seems to be turning into a bird.**

IX

"It was like this on Androzani," said Peri dizzily, as we tumbled through the door of the TARDIS.

The Doctor collapsed to the floor beside the console, mumbling and groaning as though in a delirium. Peri and I sank to our knees beside him, gasping for breath. It had been a desperate effort on our part to help the Doctor in his confused state back to the TARDIS, half-carrying him much of the way. But somehow we had made it. In between gasps Peri managed shaky smiles, purely for my benefit.

"Sure puts your priorities in order," Peri said, "when the person you've come to rely on most in the world – make that the _universe_ – is in trouble; you tend to downgrade trivial personal problems, like ..."

Gingerly, she pulled up one shirt sleeve and tried to view the patch of feathers on her forearm dispassionately. They were very smooth and fine, a deep warm brown with a faint iridescent sheen. "I suppose they'd look okay on a bird," she acknowledged, " but it's me they're growing on. Again."

She told me about the Reshapement Chamber on Varos. The nightmare memory of how the transmogrifier radiation felt as it bored into her, distorting the very cells of her body so that they would metamorphose at the bidding of her uncontrolled subconscious mind.

The Doctor groaned loudly, cutting through her dark tale. We turned to him, wondering if we could make him comfortable where he lay, because we weren't sure we had the strength to move him further.

Then we saw his features flow like melted wax, and for a moment his face seemed to ripple and blur. A halo of straight blond hair twisted, curled and became a tint darker. The multi-coloured coat, which had hung loosely round the slender frame of the younger Doctor, suddenly seemed to fill out.

And then it was the same Doctor lying on the floor who had left the TARDIS with us when we had first stepped out into the tomb.

His eyes flickered open and he stared up at us, frowning. "Why am I lying on the floor of the control room?" he enquired tersely.

"Don't you remember, Doctor?" I asked. "We were out on the temple roof, and you _changed_."

The Doctor's hands flew to his face, probing his features anxiously. "Not again," he moaned.

"No, she means you changed back to the way you looked when I first met you," said Peri. "And you got terribly confused and we had to help you down from the roof. But just now you changed back … No, I guess I mean forward, again, to what you were before … That is, today. Oh, hell – what I mean is, Doctor, that you're back to normal again. Leastwise, as normal as somebody like you ever can be."

The Doctor sat up, cautiously feeling his limbs. "I believe I resent that last comment." Recollection suddenly dawned, and he turned a concerned face to Peri. "Peri – your arms … the feathers ..."

She held up her arms with the sleeves pulled back. "Still there, I'm afraid." With a little what-the-hell shrug, she pulled open her shirt dramatically and peered down. "Still feathers there too. But I don't think they've spread further, have they?" She looked at him desperately for reassurance. Then suddenly her nerve seemed to fail and she wrapped the shirt tightly about her again and rocked back on her heels, eyes screwed shut. "Why, Doctor? Why has it happened to me again? Is it anything to do with where we are, and what happened to you?" Tears flowed down her cheeks. "Doctor, I'm frightened!"

The Doctor got to his feet and helped her up in turn. He held her firmly by the shoulders with comforting strength, and regarded her with his bright, keen eyes. "Whatever has happened," he said, in his severe but not unkind way, "we will sort it out. But there is nothing to be gained by giving in to panic."

Peri sniffed bravely. "I know that, but you gotta allow me a little leeway, here, Doctor. I mean, I'm not used to my body changing on me all of a sudden like you are. It takes some getting used to."

The Doctor raised a sardonic brow. "For that matter, I'm not used to the sort of change you describe happening to me, either. _Retro-regeneration_. That's not something that's supposed to occur naturally. Indeed, only Time Lords of the first rank have ever tried to initiate the process deliberately."

Peri managed a weak, mischievous smile. "Oh, so tell me just what rank are you, Doctor?"

He frowned at her with mock severity. "I can see your sense of irreverence has not been affected by your experience – more's the pity."

The Doctor pulled up the Sheraton chair next to the sea chest and we sat down.

"What has happened to us," he continued, switching to what I thought of as his Lecture Mode, "is clearly linked, in some way, to the energy flux tube which altered our course, the breaking of the link with the Eye of Harmony, and the trace energy field I can still detect."

"But why should any of that make our bodies go haywire?"

"Because there are particular types of hyperspacial stress or frequencies of radiation, which, if applied in the right circumstances, can destabilize the physical forms of objects, as you learned on Varos. Indeed, Time Lord physiognomy takes advantage of this potential instability, at certain times. Now, travelling in a dematerialized state, as the TARDIS does, can make you even more vulnerable to such events. Which is why one of its functions is to project what you might call a 'morphic field' to protect not only its own pattern, but also those of its passengers. Unfortunately, during the power loss, we must have been exposed to just such destabilizing conditions. And now, without power to boost the TARDIS's shields and stabilizing fields, and isolated in some way from normal space, we remain in an unstable state."

"But why have we changed the way we have?"

"Our bodies are seeking a new point of stability, or at least, a point of least instability. For a Time Lord, that is his former incarnation -"

"Why not into a totally new body?"

"Because there has been no actual trauma to trigger normal progressive regeneration."

"And me?"

"Subconsciously, you still hold the memory of the Varos transformation within you. That alone may have been sufficient, in these conditions. Remember, we also arrived on Varos short of power. By association that may have influenced the manner of your change. Also, the natural unconscious desire to escape from the confines of this tomb -"

"Yeah, to be free as a bird. Some joke. But look, things do seem to have steadied up now we're inside again. I'm not getting any worse, and you've snapped right back."

"Only temporarily, I'm afraid. If we went outside again the process would resume, probably more rapidly. And when the power in here finally dies, the stabilizing effect will be gone too."

Peri looked alarmed. "How long have we got?"

"At this low level, a few hours, no more."

"So, the first thing we've got to do is to get some power, right?" I piped up.

"That would improve our situation considerably."

"Well, we know Sydney has electric power. Can you tap into some of that?" I asked.

"Possibly. But it'll need a considerable amount to charge the system sufficiently to initiate mass conversion. And of course, it would take time to arrange, and such a power drain would be bound to be noticed." He scowled and slumped a little in his chair, appearing dejected at the thought of the task ahead.

I gestured at the dark and gloomy control room, dotted with the glow-bobs I had stuck to the walls. "But what can we do now?" I frowned at the Doctor, wondering if he was not still thinking a little slowly after his recent transformations. "Come on, Doctor," I urged, "don't be so negative. There must be a way of grabbing power from somewhere."

The Doctor scratched his head, then suddenly exclaimed: "Of course: the transductor cells!"

"Sounds like a lame-brain pop group to me," I said. "What are they?"

The Doctor, mercurial as ever, had sprung to his feet beaming, and radiating a new sense of purpose. "You'll see," he said enthusiastically, and, picking up a torch, he disappeared through the door into the interior of the TARDIS. A few moments later, there came the sound of a very large storeroom being turned out.

"That's the Doctor for you," said Peri. "Down one minute, up the next."

It didn't help, of course, that the TARDIS was like an infinitely capacious attic room, packed with treasures and curios gathered over hundreds of years, which had been sorted away and forgotten about.

"I wonder if he ever gets around to spring cleaning," I said. "Or perhaps, one day, he'll hold the ultimate garage sale..."

The Doctor returned carrying an armful of black disc-shaped objects, vaguely reminiscent of World War II limpet mines.

"Transductor cells," he announced proudly. "They can be adjusted to absorb energy over a wide spectra, and transmit it back to the TARDIS via a hyperspatial loop. "I'm going to set some of these to act as solar absorbers -"

"Like solar power cells?"

"Precisely. Then we only need to place them on the roof of the temple and we can start drawing power. Not much, of course, but it should maintain the status quo."

"Hold on, Doctor." I was frowning. "These gizmos sound okay, but if we have to go outside to set them, you and Peri will just continue changing, and I'm not going to drag you back here again!"

"That problem had occurred to me," said the Doctor reproachfully. "I'm going to make portable morphic resonator units for us to carry. These will link us to the TARDIS and should maintain our present patterns."

"Well that's great. How long will they take to make?"

"Oh, only a couple of hours."

It was my turn to look reproachful. "Can you guarantee we've still got a couple of hours of power left? What happens if you go retro again before you can finish the job?" I took a deep breath, to gather my resolve. "Perhaps it would be sensible, if you tell me what to do, that I take these things outside alone, while you get right on with building these resonator units."

The Doctor looked doubtful. "Are you sure you want to go?"

"No," I replied sharply, "I don't really know what to do. But I don't see how we've any choice."

"I could go with her," said Peri. "This change thing seems to affect me gradually, but you become pretty well helpless. We can't risk that again, but I guess I can live with a few more feathers."

"Your reasoning is impeccable," he conceded, smiling gently.

The Doctor laid one of the transductor cells on the console and opened a lid in its middle, revealing three small coloured dials, which he adjusted carefully. "Place them along the pyramid wall, where they'll catch the most sun. When they are in position, twist the centre section clockwise through ninety degrees like this..." A spray of ribs extended from around the edge of the disc like an unfurling flower, spreading a fine black mesh between them. "...then the unit is activated."

Peri nodded. "I see. Okay, let's get on with it."

"You should be able to carry four cells. Remember not to spend any more time setting them than you must."

"Doctor, I assure you, we won't be hanging around to admire the view. We'll be ten minutes, tops. You can time us."

We were back inside the TARDIS in under nine minutes. We had placed the cells without incident, but Peri was carrying her boots and her feet were bare. There were thicker feathery growths around her ankles and extending up her calves, and her toe nails had started to extend and curve to form talons. "I guess I'll just have to find some open sandals for the time being," she commented, with slightly brittle levity. "Is the power coming in okay? The console sure looks brighter."

"It is. Thanks to your efforts we can maintain the present minimal functions indefinitely," the Doctor confirmed.

"But we're still a long way from building up the reserve we need?"

"A very long way, but it's a start."

"How many more of the cells are there?"

"Six. I thought I'd put out four more on the roof when I've finished the resonator, and save the other two for some more concentrated energy source – if I can find one."

"Hey. You're making up two of those things, remember. We're all going outside."

The Doctor looked uncomfortable. "Unfortunately, I can only find enough components for one unit. I seem to have let the spare part stock run a little low."

"You mean I've got to stay cooped up in here, alone?"

"I'm afraid so. In any case, I don't think local costume would suit you now. You wouldn't be able to conceal your … abnormalities."

"Well thank you for putting it so delicately," retorted Peri bitterly. She pressed her fingertips to her forehead for a moment and sighed heavily. "Sorry, Doctor. Please, just go out there and do whatever you have to for us to get back to normal again. And whatever it is, do it quickly."

**Aw... poor Peri is stuck in the TARDIS and is going to miss all the fun...**


	11. Chapter Ten

**Meanwhile in New Zealand...**

**X**

On the morning of September 26, 1861, Daniel Jenkins brought his new command, the diesel-powered frigate _Cossack_, into Auckland's Manukau Harbour. On board was His Excellency Sir George Grey, returning to New Zealand for his second term as governor, and as the signal guns boomed their customary salute, Daniel saw that his distinguished passenger's deep-set blue eyes were bright with pleasure.

But there was something more there, as the king caught sight of the cheering throng gathered on the Queen Street wharf to bid them welcome. Among the crowd was a large group of Maoris, the chiefs in ceremonial cloaks, and their cheers, at times, drowned those of the settlers as they pressed forward eagerly, unable to hide their delight. The governor, Daniel saw, was moved momentarily to tears, as if this were the homecoming for which he had longed yet had not been sure he would receive. Then, shamed by his display of emotion, he drew himself up, and the tears swiftly vanished.

During the five-week-long passage from the Cape, Daniel had come to know and admire the austere and brilliant man into whose hands the troubled colony's future had once again been entrusted. That Grey was also a sick and embittered man he had realized, from the moment the governor had stepped on board the _Cossack_ at Cape Town, a pale, gauntly handsome figure, leaning on the arm of one of his aides. It had been common gossip among those of his staff who had accompanied him that the acrimonious breakdown of his marriage had affected him profoundly, but his bitterness, Daniel had sensed, stemmed from another cause.

Pacing the quarterdeck in Daniel's company during the night watches, he had talked, never easily but always honestly, his judgement of himself at times harsh, at other times bordering on arrogance – or what might have been taken as arrogance, had it not been for the fact that he believed passionately in his own judgement on the causes for which he had sought for most of his life.

Sir George's governorship of the Cape had not been an unmitigated success. Although the colonists had hailed him as the best governor Great Britain had ever sent to South Africa, the reforms he had advocated and the measures he had taken to implement them had found no favour with the British Colonial Office. He had repeatedly crossed swords with British officialdom, aroused the implacable hostility of the Colonial Secretary, defied the Admiralty and the Horse Guards and, it transpired, made countless enemies in the British House of Commons.

On his own admission, only a change of government had saved him from ignominious and permanent recall. The new Colonial Secretary had reappointed him as governor of New Zealand when it had become evident that the Maoris of the Taranaki tribes would never make peace with Colonel Gore-Browne, whose high-handed attempts to crush their resistance had invoked such deep-seated mistrust.

"I, too, shall meet with mistrust, Captain Jenkins," the governor had said, more than once, towards the end of their passage. "The settlers will expect me to suspend the constitution and continue the war, which I have no intention of doing. And, when I fail to do so, they will accuse me of favouring the Maori's cause at the expense of theirs. I want to see justice done to both factions, and I want also to make peace – but not peace at any price, you understand. It must be a lasting peace, and that will not be easy to achieve, for I shall be serving two masters – the British Parliament and the New Zealand Assembly. And their solutions to the problem are utterly and completely incompatible!"

From his vantage point at the rear of the small procession that escorted the governor ashore, Daniel watched as his former passenger accepted the greetings of Colonel Gore-Brown, Bishop Selwyn, Henry Sewell, and other leading personages and prominent members of the Assembly. Among them, stiff as a ramrod in his bemedalled scarlet uniform, was Major General Cameron, now commanding the imperial troops in New Zealand. A formidable officer in appearance and by reputation, Cameron greeted Sir George Grey with an impeccable salute but, significantly, did not smile, despite the governor's cordial acknowledgement of the greeting.

The military band struck up, and with former governor Gore-Brown and General Cameron seated on either side of him, Sir George Grey – after pausing deliberately to address a few words in their own language to the group of Maori chiefs and their retainers – permitted himself to be driven in an open carriage to Government House. As the cheers died away, Daniel heard a familiar voice calling to him by name, and turning, he found himself confronted by the tall figure of his brother Johnny, clad, to his surprise, in the blue serge uniform and peaked forage cap of a colonial volunteer.

"My dear fellow, it's good to see you!" Daniel embraced his brother warmly and then stood back, to study him with puzzled eyes. "I had supposed you to be reporting on the war, not taking an active part in it, for goodness' sake!" He was tempted to inquire whether Johnny's wife approved of his transition, but thought better of it and, instead, gestured to the ship at his back and took his brother's arm. "Come on board and take a drink with me. I'm anxious to hear all your news."

"And I yours," Johnny assured him. "Is Elizabeth with you?"

Daniel shook his head. "Their Lordships would not permit me to give her passage. She and the children – we have a small son now, born in England while I languished on half pay – they came out in the P & O mail steamer _Salseite_, ahead of me. All being well, they should be in Sydney already, and I'm eager to join them. The boy's name is John Benjamin, and he's a fine little fellow." Daniel smiled and led the way to the _Cossack_'s gangway, returning the salutes of the men on duty at its head. Reaching his day cabin, he waved Johnny to a seat, poured two glasses of Cape brandy, and lifted his own in salute.

"Your very good health, brother John! Tell me – how is the lovely Lady Kitty?"

Johnny moodily quaffed the contents of his glass.

"She is very well, but – alas, she does not like New Zealand overmuch. And my joining the colonial forces has displeased her greatly, I'm afraid," he added, answering Daniel's unvoiced question. "She talks incessantly of going back to Sydney. Her brother's there – you remember Pat, don't you? Well, he wearied of farming, persuaded Luke Murphy to take over his sheep run in Victoria, and has hied himself back to Sydney with all possible speed. I have no idea what he plans to do there. But Luke, good fellow that his is, has certainly fallen on his feet. You heard, I suppose, that he married Uncle Will's little adopted daughter, Jane?"

"No," Daniel shook his head, leaning across to refill his brother's glass. "No, I hadn't heard that. But I'm glad, for both their sakes. The girl is deaf and dumb, isn't she?"

"Yes, but a charming little creature in spite of it."

Daniel refilled his own glass and leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "Do you think your wife _will _go back to Sydney?"

Johnny shrugged. "I honestly don't know, Dan. I don't want her to, but … well, you know Kitty. She is a law unto herself, and I know she misses Pat. They're twins and they've never been apart – not until she married me, that is. What she really dislikes is being left here alone, which is understandable, of course. And since I joined the militia, I have to go where I'm sent."

"Why _did _you join the militia, Johnny?" Daniel asked. "Your reports on the war in the Taranaki were first rate. I even read extracts from them in the English papers, under your name."

Johnny frowned. "The ghastly defeat Major Nelson suffered when he attacked Miremu Kingi's _pa _at Puketakauere in June made me decide that I couldn't just be an onlooker. You read about that, I imagine?" Daniel nodded, and he went on. "Nelson's one of the bravest fellows I ever met, but he made a hideous mistake trying to attack with the bayonet. And that incompetent idiot Colonel Gold let him down by turning back, instead of bringing up reinforcements, as he had promised he would. And it wasn't the first time, either." Bitterly, Johnny described the manner in which the 65th's veteran commander had abandoned the Volunteers at Waireka by ordering the withdrawal of his regiment at sunset, when – heavily outnumbered – the militia were fighting for their lives. "At Puketakauere the naval commander, Beauchamp-Seymour of the _Pelorus –_ a truly remarkable fellow, who wears a monocle and whose sailors call him the Swell of the Ocean – was very severely wounded. In fact, the poor fellow nearly died, but his seamen carried him back to camp. You know him, I expect?"

"I've met him," Daniel confirmed.

"Will Jones was also wounded," Johnny said. "Only slightly, I'm glad to say. He came to our aid from the Bell Block with fifty of the Volunteers, after Gold turned back with his entire column and two guns, when he might have saved the day. It's said that the men of his regiment hissed him, when he gave the order to retire."

"And has he been permitted to continue in command?" Daniel exclaimed. "I should have thought-"

"So did everyone concerned," Johnny asserted disgustedly. "There was a military court of inquiry a few weeks ago, but its findings were hushed up. Gold's gone, seemingly without a stain on his character! General Pratt saw to that. Now _he _has done a most excellent job. Feelings between the army and the settlers were running very high when he arrived from Sydney in July of last year, and the casualties were alarming. The weather was appalling too, so the general couldn't make a decisive move until the middle of September – almost exactly a year ago, in fact, Dan. I was with the force as a reporter, and Governor Gore-Brown was urging him to avenge Puketakauere. Well, he did, but in his own fashion. No more disastrous frontal attacks with the bayonet for General Pratt."

Johnny again drained his glass and broke off, as Daniel refilled it.

"What do you mean by 'his fashion'?" Daniel asked curiously. "The reports I've seen suggested that General Pratt was succeeding where others failed, but the last newspaper I saw was a three-week-old copy of the _Times_ in Cape Town."

Johnny was smiling now. "Thomas Pratt – soon to be _Sir _Thomas, I'm led to believe, with a damned well earned K.C.B. - was determined to cut down the casualty rate. And he did it by sapping up to the _pas –_ digging well-protected saps, right up to the palisades, building redoubts, and siting his guns in them. He took three major _pas _in less than a month, Dan, at the cost of five casualties! The Maoris simply couldn't understand what was going on – they kept on urging us to come out and fight! In November, when the general returned to New Plymouth, with a bloodless victory under his belt, word came that the Waikato were crossing the river in force. They occupied a disused _pa _eight miles from the town, but General Pratt didn't wait for them to restore its defences. He advanced right away, and on that occasion he didn't take time to sap. The Waikato weren't ready, and he attacked them from three sides. He routed them and lost only four killed and fifteen wounded, most of those in the hand-to-hand fighting." Johnny's smile widened. "It was then, Dan, that I decided I could not stay out of the battle, whatever Kitty thought about it. I'd been thinking about it ever since Puketakaere, and the general offered to get me a commission. I'm an acting captain, believe it or not, and I've been in all the actions we've fought against the Waikato. I've sapped at Wiremu Kingi's _pas _at Matarikoriko, Hiurangi, and Te Arei with the sixty-fifth and the Fortieth and the Twelfth. I've heard the British soldiers grouse and grumble at the sweat they've had to expend digging their trenches and redoubts, but I've seen how effective the general's tactics are. I've seen many good men die, in spite of Pratt's efforts to preserve their lives, but he's done wonders, and I reckon that peace will be concluded before we're much older. Unfortunately, Wiremu Kingi's not ready to put out a white flag just yet. They say he's left Taranaki, vowing to support the King Movement." Johnny shrugged in resignation. "Our late governor made it too plain that he was out to destroy the Kingites, I fear. The rebel Maoris call him Angry Belly and don't trust him an inch. Hence the Colonial Office, in its wisdom, has sent Sir George Grey back here to replace him."

"A good move, surely, Johnny?" Daniel suggested.

"You probably know the answer to that better than I do, since you brought him out; but … yes, on the whole, I'd say it was a good move. The Maoris hold him in very high esteem, and the friendlies, like old Chief Waaka Nene, trust him implicitly. On the other hand-" Johnny repeated his shrug. "The majority of the settlers and many of the politicians are not sure that Grey will put _their _interests first. He could meet with considerable opposition, Dan. We shall just have to wait and see what will happen. I suppose."

Offered another glass of brandy, Johnny declined. He took out his pocket watch and swore softly. "Lord, how the time flies! Kitty expects me for lunch, and this is the first leave I've had for close on six months. Dan, I shall have to go, but … dine with us this evening, will you? I'll pick you up at about seven-thirty, if that suits you. And you know, of course, that you will be more than welcome to take up residence with us, should you feel so inclined. You are staying here, I take it?"

"No, alas, I'm not," Daniel answered, conscious of a momentary regret. "My orders are to proceed to Australia, giving passage to any who require it – mainly wounded and disabled soldiers and seamen, I believe. Or possibly His Excellency Colonel Gore-Brown. I shall have to report to the commodore and ascertain from him whether or not my orders have been changed."

"Commodore Loring?" Johnny's tone was faintly derisive. "You'll find him at the anchorage, on board the _Iris_. Apart from a short sojourn in Wellington, he's been here, officially consulting with Governor Gore-Browne as to tactics, but … well, not to put too fine a point on it, Dan, Auckland gossip has it that he and H.E.'s lady wife have been conducting a passionate affair behind the old gentleman's back. Mrs. Gore-Browne is thirty years younger than her husband and possessed of much charm. And Loring's a dashing sort of fellow, Crimean veteran and all that. But keep that little tidbit under your hat, won't you?"

Johnny rose, setting down his empty glass. He glanced again at his watch and sighed. "Loring's to be relieved as commodore, we are led to believe, with Beauchamp-Seymour acting until his relief arrives. Anyway, there's talk of several of the naval ships leaving, once peace in concluded. But you'll probably find out what's in the wind in that quarter before I do."

"Yes, doubtless I shall," Daniel agreed. "My respects to you Lady Kitty, John. I look forward to seeing her."

He accompanied his brother to gangway, and they parted on the understanding that he would din with Johnny and his wife that evening. His attempt to make contact with Commodore Loring, however, was unsuccessful, the commodore being ashore at Government House. But early in the afternoon, a signal from the diesel-powered corvette _Pelorus _informed him that Captain Beauchamp-Seymour was on his way to call on him.

A smartly manned boat, its crew in striped white jumpers and beribboned straw hats, came alongside, and Daniel received the acting commodore with the appropriate ceremony. As the bo'sun's mates' twittering calls faded into silence, Beauchamp-Seymour fixed his monocle firmly in his eye and returned the side party's salute, before offering Daniel an affable greeting.

Frederick Beachamp Paget Seymour was a handsome man of forty, who came of an aristocratic family with a record of distinguished service in both the navy and the army. Daniel had met him briefly when Seymour had been serving as flag lieutenant to his uncle, Rear Admiral Sir George Seymour, in the 80-gun line-of-battle ship _Collingwood_ on the Pacific station, and as they descended to the day cabin, Seymour surprised him by recalling their meeting.

"We missed each other in India – you were attached to poor Peel's naval brigade, weren't you?" Seymour went on, "I, for my sins, was dispatched to Burma just as the mutiny broke out in the Bengal Presidency. We had to occupy a filthy, crumbling fort up the Irrawaddy, at Meaday, for almost three months, and half my men went down with dysentery! Frankly, Jenkins, despite the casualties we've suffered since being posted here, I infinitely prefer New Zealand. The Maoris are pretty ferocious foes, but they are incredibly brave and astonishingly chivalrous in battle. I shall be sorry to leave."

Daniel, pouring drinks, turned to look at him in mute question, and Captain Seymour inclined his well-groomed head. "Yes, we're to sail for Australia as soon as peace is signed – the whole squadron, apart from the _Victorious_. Mind, I do not expect peace to be concluded immediately. We'll be here for a while yet, but the naval brigade has been disbanded, and our men have returned to their ships."

"Do you have any fresh orders for me, sir?" Daniel asked.

Seymour shook his head. "No, none. You're to proceed to Sydney, aren't you? Well, you are free to sail whenever it suits." Seymour smiled. "Doubtless you will have heard the reason for Their Lordships' anxiety to base the squadron at Sydney?"

"No, sir," Daniel admitted.

The acting commodore's smile widened. "My dear fellow, they fear the outbreak of war with the northern states of America!"

"Good grief!" Daniel stared at him increduously. Though he was well aware that relations between Washington and London had been steadily deteriorating, owing to the British government's support for the cause of the southern states, Daniel had never envisioned the possibility of open hostilities. "Do they really consider that seriously?"

"It would seem they do, Jenkins. Furthermore, they appear to suppose that a naval attack on Port Jackson is a possibility! So you will be responsible for warding it off, should it come, because, as I told you, my squadron must stay here until peace in the Taranaki is concluded." Seymour screwed his monocle back on, after wiping it carefully with a silk kerchief, then accepted a cigar from Daniel and, leaning back in his chair, started to talk at some length about the recent campaign in the Taranaki area. As Johnny had done, he paid tribute to the courage and skill of the Maori warriors, describing the formidable _pas _they built and defended with such tenacity.

"I don't know whether anyone has told you of the disaster we suffered at Puketakauere, Jenkins," he went on, a pensive frown drawing his brows together. "It was an eye-opener to me, I can tell you..."

Daniel, although he had seen the _Herald_'s lengthy account of the battle, did not interrupt, and Seymour, after giving a colourful description of the action in which he had been wounded – indeed, almost killed, according to Johnny – went on without a pause to relate his part in other battles. He supplied details of each with infectious enthusiasm, and then said thoughtfully, "Certain events and certain individuals remain in the mind, you know. My ship's company, of course – Lord, I was proud of them! But there was one incident in particular that has haunted me ever since, because I'm as sure as I can be of anything that I recognized the fellow in question. Heroes come in all guises, and we had quite a few among our own bluejackets – but the particular fellow I'm talking about was a soldier of the Fortieth, a Private Gibbs. I think he's been made up to sergeant since, but … devil take it, Jenkins, I could swear I knew him in India! Only he was in our service then – a lieutenant – and his name wasn't Gibbs."

Daniel's interest quickened, but he said nothing, and Captain Seymour went on, an odd note in his deep, pleasant voice. "It was at Te Arei, by repute the most impregnable of the Maori _pas. _It stood on a steep rise, the Waitara River, with clifflike banks, protecting the position to the right and left. Between our sap-head and the _pa_ itself there was a mile of level ground, with enemy rifle pits, covered over and quite invisible, some of them sited at the edge of dense bush, so thick with undergrowth that we had to hack our way through it. General Pratt sent in the Fortieth and two companies of the Sixty-fifth in extended order to take a small, fern-covered hill that commanded the whole line of Maori rifle pits. They were ordered to dig in, when they had gained the hill, and occupy it, preparatory to constructing a redoubt on its summit."

Seymour sighed and, as if anticipating Daniel's question, said dryly, "The general knew there would be some casualties, but the position being what it was, he had no choice, really. And casualties there were, including the Sixty-fifth's commander, Captain Strange, and two of his subalterns, who were shot down almost at once. But I saw the fellow I'm talking about, Gibbs, take command. He led them and they took the hill in splendid style, and once there they outflanked the rifle pits, so the general's objective was achieved. During the night, Gibbs brought in five of the wounded, alone, carrying them on his back braving a heavy fire from the palisades of the _pa_. Then he went back to the hill and stayed there. In the morning all the rifle pits were abandoned, and we brought a gun up to the hill. It was a truly incredible effort. Gibbs, in my opinion, ought to get the V.C." He frowned, in evident perplexity. "I talked to him a couple of days later, but when I said I intended to recommend him for the Cross, he pleaded with me not to do so! I tried to question him, in the hope of finding out who he was and where I'd met him before, but … he evaded all my questions and denied ever having set eyes on me in his life! But I don't easily forget a face, and I'd swear I met him before."

Vincent, Daniel thought – could it possibly be young Lieutenant Samuel Vincent, on whose court martial he had served? On the face of it, the idea was wildly improbable, but Vincent had served in the _Gibbs_' naval brigade during the Sepoy Mutiny in India, so that the name he had assumed – if, indeed, the name _was_ an assumed one – left room for speculation, even if it did not afford proof.

On the point of confiding his thoughts to Captain Seymour, Daniel hesitated. It seemed evident, from what his fellow captain had said, that Vincent if indeed it was Vincent – had strong personal reasons for not wishing to be identified. He had refused to permit Captain Seymour to recommend him for a Victoria Cross, fearing, no doubt, that were the recommendation to go forward, it would lead to the disclosure of his real name and his record. The trial, the sentence … good Lord, the poor young devil would not want any of it to be known! He had chosen to enlist in the army, to seek anonymity in the ranks of the 40th Regiment; he-

Seymour rose reluctantly to his feet. "I must go and make my number with the new governor, Jenkins," he said. "Indeed, I was on my way to Government House when I decided to pay a call on you. And I fear I've let my tongue run away with me, yarning over old battles and no doubt boring you unforgivable. I crave your indulgence, my dear fellow."

"It has been of great interest, sir," Daniel assured him truthfully, rising at once.

"It's been good to go into action again." Captain Seymour settled his monocle carefully in his eye and donned his hat. "We shall meet again in Sydney, if and when the peace here is agreed and I'm permitted to depart. In the meantime, Captain Jenkins" - his smile was almost boyish - "the defence of Port Jackson will become _your _responsibility, should Their Lordships' extraordinary fears be realized and the Americans launch a seaborne attack on the colony!"

He was still chuckling at the absurd notion when he took his departure.

Johnny arrived at the wharf, as promised, in a gig, drawn by a pair of handsomely matched bay horses, but it was evident, when Daniel joined him, that he was embarrassed and annoyed.

"My wife, I regret to have to tell you," he announced with restraint, "will not be at home to receive you, Dan. When I went back to our lodgings, I found a note from her in which she informed me that she had accepted an invitation to dine with William Fox, our ex-premier! Her escort, it seems, is a wealthy settler from Ireland by the name of O'Hara, who is a member of the Assembly. He has taken her out to view his property, prior to dining with his friend Fox. Apparently-" Johnny's subdued annoyance suddenly came to the surface, and he added wrathfully, "The infernal fellow breeds blood horses, and Kitty's been dying to take a look at them, and she'll buy one given half a chance, though goodness knows where she'll keep it! But it leaves me with no alternative, Dan, I'm afraid – I'll have to take you to the Auckland militia mess for a meal."

Daniel, seeking to spare his brother's feelings, did not demur, and, indeed, he spent a pleasant enough evening in the company of Johnny's fellow officers, although their talk was – as Captain Seymour's had been – almost exclusively of the war, with few of them holding out any real hope of a permanent peace.

It was with oddly mixed emotions that, the following day, he received formal permission to proceed to Sydney, taking on board some fifteen wounded men of the 12th and 40th regiments, whose injuries rendered most of them unfit for active service.

But, Daniel reflected, as the pilot disembarked and he set course for Australia, Elizabeth and his children would be awaiting his return, and, God willing – whatever the militia officers feared – Sir George Grey would contrive to act as peacemaker between the settlers and the Maoris. As to the supposed threat of attack from America, he found himself sharing Captain Beauchamp-Seymour's scepticism, as he dispensed with the _Cossack_'s engines and ordered the topmen aloft to make sail.

**So what does the war in New Zealand have to do with the Doctor and co in Sydney? Be patient and all will be revealed in due course.**


	12. Chapter Eleven

**What are the Doctor and the girls up to in Sydney?**

XI

**Peri's POV**

Peri sat, elbows resting on the console, chin cupped in hands, and watched the people flow past on the monitor screen.

The point of view of the unseen camera was at about chest height, and every so often it turned about to face another direction. Occasionally, people would appear to be looking directly at her – which meant they had glanced at the medallion the Doctor was wearing pinned to his cravat, within which the miniature camera was concealed. It also contained a tiny microphone, which transmitted the hubbub of conversation that filled Pitt Street, along which the Doctor and Anita were currently making their way. At the moment, Peri had muted the volume and was staring at the almost silent picture with frustration, contemplating the irony of the situation.

Here I am, she thought, in the middle of colonial Sydney – at least, a version of colonial Sydney – having come with the object of rubbing shoulders with the actual genuine people of the time, and the best I can do now is watch them on television, courtesy of the Doctor's own hidden eye channel. So okay, it's great that the Doctor and Anita are out and about safely and the morphic resonator concealed in the Doctor's cuff seems to be working, but let's face it, it's simply boring being cooped up in here like, like … the Birdwoman of Alcatraz. Irritably, she scratched the patch of feathers on her arm.

The miniature audio-visual equipment had been another item the Doctor had suddenly recalled he had tucked away 'somewhere', just before he and Anita left an hour earlier. With it had come a pea-sized earpiece and a throat microphone, which he had concealed under his cravat. This had given them two-way communication, a boon which Peri had almost instantly regretted, as it allowed her to witness, with an alarming sense of helplessness (and occasional unintentional giggles), the Doctor and Anita's descent through the temple roof 'skylight' and down onto a gallery level below, hanging from what Peri thought was an inadequately slender cord in the process. Neither the Doctor's build, which was not designed for acrobatics, nor Anita's contemporary costume, of boots, long dress and cloak, which got tangled in her line, helped matters. But they had finally made it safely, and, equally importantly, unobserved. Fortunately, the upper levels of the temple seemed to be practically deserted at that hour, which was by then sometime after midday.

Peri had then been treated to a rapid sequence of images showing stairs, marble columns, a large statue of Queen Victoria dominating the end of a lofty chamber, an entrance hall and the sun streaming in through large doors. Briskly, the Doctor and Anita had descended the broad flight of steps down to the park that opened before the temple-tomb.

When he was well clear, they turned around to examine their impromptu place of concealment from the outside. For the first time, Peri appreciated the visual impact of the line of towering columns that fronted the building, and how the eye automatically followed them up, past the blocks of the massive, decorated entablature, to the pyramid cap that rose from the heart of the building and seemed ready to pierce the sky. You had to hand it to the colonials, she conceded. When it came to architecture they knew how to make a statement – which in this case was: this building is dedicated to somebody who was really somebody, whose importance you will be reminded of every time you pass it by.

The Doctor's first objective had been a practical but mundane visit to a money changer. By dint of going through the pockets in the TARDIS's huge wardrobe room, he had assembled a collection of old coins pre-dating the present time, and hopefully exchangeable for local currency. Twenty minutes after leaving the tomb, with Peri in electronic attendance, he and Anita had made their way to one of the city's market streets.

To her eyes, the shops were singularly unimpressive, being hardly more than holes in the wall with shutters opened wide to display their wares. Turning left out of Hunter Street and heading south past the Union Bank towards King Street, The Doctor and Anita paused to admire the fruit at Mrs Ann Makin's shop, and then glanced at the blank windows of what was a millinery business, 'Maison Francaise'. A sign in the window stated that the store is now in George Street.

On the other side of Brougham Place, Susan Glue and her husband, John, are busy at their labour registry and coffee house. Recently the Glues have had some new competition for their registry office; Marianne Pawsey has just moved her own Servants' Registry Office almost next door. Finally, on this side of the street is Eliza Hudson's music shop.

They turned around after their short perusal of the block, and headed back to the Union Bank. Peri had, subconsciously, been expecting the 1861 equivalent of armoured glass, or at least a lot of heavy bars. But the tiny, bearded man with the scales who assayed the Doctor's mixed offerings, seemed to work entirely out of one massive iron-bound chest. Of course, Peri thought, the two huge plug-uglies who loomed behind him and brandished no-nonsense spiked clubs in a very obvious manner might perhaps compensate for any lack of passive security measures.

After some negotiation, the Doctor bartered his assorted coinage, no doubt at a very unfavourable exchange rate, for a modest sum of local money. He secured his new funds in his wallet and they set off up the street again.

"Where are you going now?" Peri enquired over the com-link. "The pub on the corner," the Doctor replied, his words sounding slightly slurred. "It's the heart of the city's social and public life. Apart from learning of potential power sources, there might be some useful information about what has been going on here to be overheard."

In fact, he came across something usefully informative outside the pub.

An alcove had been cut into the corner of the building, to provide shelter for three mounted busts, rather in the manner of an offical public monument, Peri thought, or a wayside shrine. Assuming the sculptor had done them justice, the three were all handsome people. Two were men, one was a woman, and all were portrayed wearing crowns. The man on the bottom right of the group, as Peri looked at them, was a little older than the other two, with a distinctive high forehead. There were inscriptions carved into the alcove wall behind them, which the Doctor had read rapidly. There was also, Peri couldn't help but notice, some graffiti adorning the official text.

"These appear," said the Doctor, "to be the Triumvirate currently ruling Oceana. The older man on the right is Sir William Thomas Denison, governor of New South Wales, while the other two are Queen Victoria of the British Empire and Sir Thomas Robert Gore Browne, governor of New Zealand.

"What's the graffiti say?"

"Well … it's not very complimentary to Mr. Browne about his handling of Māori land issues. Victoria is castigated simply for being Queen of England; old resentments die hard, it seems. Never mind. This is a start. We shall press on to the pub to see what else we can discover."

After some thought, she turned the volume up again and said: "Look, Doctor. This is fine in theory, but if nobody's conveniently giving a lecture on the history of the last quarter century for the benefit of displaced time travellers, then it's not going to do us a whole lot of good. Isn't there somewhere else you can try, like a library or something?"

"Unfortunately, a Sydney library is unlikely to be up to date on the most recent events in any usefully objective form. In any case, as I don't know exactly what questions to ask, and would rather not call attention to myself by revealing my suspicious ignorance of common knowledge, research is likely to take some time."

"Yes, here at the pub is the best place to pump people for the straight gossip without them becoming suspicious," said Anita.

While the Doctor escorted Anita to the courtyard, Peri took the opportunity to get up and stretch her legs.

For a few minutes, she carefully examined the patches of feathers on her body again for any indication they had spread further. They still covered the fleshier parts of her arms and legs, with distinctly thicker growth about her ankles and calves. The diamond-shaped patch on her chest ran half-way to her navel. By twisting round in front of the mirror in her room, she could see a similar patch across her shoulders and running down her spine. There were markedly thicker tufts of feathers between her shoulder blades. Incipient wings? She wondered. She certainly couldn't recall feeling them on Varos – though of course, she hadn't exactly been taking notes at the time. Still, it did suggest the past was not simply repeating itself. Perhaps, with the whole process occurring at a slower pace and not forced, it was more controlled. At least everything seemed stable for the moment. In fact, the feathers were not actually uncomfortable, she decided, feeling more like very soft, close fitting wool, and were pleasantly warm. I guess that's why birds use them, she thought with a grin. She looked at the sharp talons that her nails had shaped themselves into. And I've seen longer than these, she told herself, worn at parties and painted scarlet.

Pleased with her positive attitude, she idly walked to the exterior doors and peered out into the darkness, taking a breath of 'fresh' air …

And froze, listening intently.

Faintly but distinctly, she could hear the sound of metal clinking and scraping against stone.

The Liverpool Arms certainly had atmosphere, conceded the Doctor – an amalgam of stale beer, lamp oil and sweat. The décor also lacked the charm normally associated with, for instance, the ideal English pub. The floor seemed in urgent need of mopping. The bar, looming out of the gloomy interior, was a simple rough-sawn table polished black by use, backed by an unstable looking rack of shelves carrying assorted jars, kegs, cups and mugs, the latter either of pewter or glass. He bought a grape juice for Anita, who he had left sitting in the courtyard with the ladies, and a bottle of wine with a glass for himself. He took the juice out to Anita, and then return to the main room, scanning the room for his target. There were two or three huddles of people seated on stools and benches, hunched over their drinks cluttering the bar's assorted drink-stained tables. But the Doctor was looking for somebody sitting alone, preferably one who had reached that stage of needing to drink in company even if there was nobody actually with him.

Yes, in the corner of the room. A small man in late middle age. His clothes were somewhat drink-stained but they looked of fair quality. His general appearance was that of a thinker rather than a manual worker. The Doctor casually walked over to him.

"Excuse me, good sir, but I am a stranger in town and I hate to drink alone. May I offer you some wine?"

The man looked up from his glass and tried to focus on the Doctor. "What … say?"

"I said," repeated the Doctor, speaking loudly and clearly, "that I would like to join you in a drink." He waved the bottle helpfully before the man's eyes.

Comprehension seemed to dawn. "Yesh, yes," he slurred, gesturing with his cup and spilling its remaining contents. "Sit down, please yourself … What does it matter anyway?"

The Doctor took a seat, steadied the man's cup, uncorked his own bottle and poured out a generous measure. His own glass he only half filled. "Good health to you," he said cheerfully, sipping (the wine was palatable, but with a distinct sediment and a hint of vinegar). "I am Doctor John Smith. May I enquire as to whom I have the pleasure of drinking with?"

The little man drew himself up a little. "I am George Hack, professor of natural pheno-phenomena."

The Doctor beamed back at him. "Professor Hack, I think you are just the person I have been hoping to meet."

Peri was kneeling on the ground just outside the TARDIS doorway, pressing her ear to the cold stone flags. For one wild moment, when she had first heard the sounds, she had visions of the mummy of Fitzroy lurching towards her out of the darkness. Then she realized the sounds were coming from below the level of the the tomb chambers. Unmistakably, it was the sound of digging. From this observation, the image of tomb-robbers came very naturally to mind. Why did they have to pick just now? She thought bitterly. Of course, it might be simply building work in the temple downstairs. Somehow, she thought this was simply self-delusion. She got to her feet. All right. If it is tomb-robbers, where are they going to come up, how long until they appear – and how do I break it to the Doctor?

"So, how do you see the passage of history being affected by the progress of invention, Professor Hack?" the Doctor ventures with studied carelessness. "Say, for instance, over the last quarter century. There have been so many changes by way of material discoveries that have influenced society, have there not?"

George Hack was nodding animatedly, if unsteadily. The Doctor suspected he welcomed a companion to talk to. "Nothing like it in … all recorded history," he agreed.

"But what would you say was the major, underlying, cause of the changes?"

George blinked at him in puzzlement. "Why, the Oracle of Auckland, what else?"

"Of course the Oracle," said the Doctor quickly, trying to sound as though he knew what he was talking about, "but what I meant was the underlying factors beneath the obvious. I mean the, er, manner in which new concepts were applied. The human factor in their utilization. The element of chance … destiny?" he trailed off lamely.

This appeared to make sense to George, who made a wise pyramid of his fingertips, after a few preliminary failures at making them meet, drew himself together and launched into a somewhat rambling lecture.

"Naturally, the timing of the discovery of the Oracle off the coast of Auckland was crucial. Truly it was said that God smiled on the governor of New Zealand in that hour. And consider, at what moment but that of immi-imminent war would so great a concentration of resources and effort be invested in turning the dreams the Oracle offered into reality. Imagine how the subsequent course of events might have run had this not occurred. Where would we be today?"

"Where indeed?" remarked the Doctor dryly.

Peri's voice suddenly buzzed in his hear: "Doctor, I think something's happening here -"

The Doctor hastily raised his cup to cover his lips and mouthed: "Don't bother me now!"

"Well, be like that then!" And there was a click as she turned off.

"Perhaps by now," continued George, "the revelation of the secrets of the diesel-driven engine and the destructive force of the high explosive shell, that were so decisive at … um, Waikato, seem quite commonplace, but I recall at the time ..."

Back in the TARDIS, Peri was wondering if she hadn't been a little sharp with the Doctor. After all, he had obviously found someone useful to talk to. Perhaps it was just as well she hadn't told him. If he'd tried to race back here against the clock, he might be seen getting onto the temple roof. Anyway, calling for the Doctor's help as soon as there was a problem had almost become a habit. Surely she could think of something herself. She must be able to outwit a bunch of colonial tomb-robbers. Think positive, she told herself again. Yes, she was sure she could come up with something. But it would mean going outside the TARDIS for a while. Peri took a deep breath. Well, hadn't she said she could cope with a few more feathers? This wasn't like before on Varos when she was panicked and confused. This time _she _was in control.

Leaving the recorder running, so that she could review whatever the Doctor had discovered later, she picked up a torch and strode purposefully out into the ante-chamber.

Right. The first thing was to find where exactly they were going to come up.

She worked her way around the chamber, listening intently, then started up the stairs for the treasure vault. The digging sounds definitely seemed louder in that direction. In the vault, she went down on her hands and knees again and searched for the focus. Eventually, she identified a floor slab about half-way along one of the aisles as being their likely point of emergence. Well, she thought, right on target, and they couldn't have more than a few feet to go. They would have a nice surprise when they lifted that slab. She sat back on her heels, grinning, and looked about her. Yes, there was bound to be everything she wanted here. She would see to it that they had the surprise of their lives.

"... and after the conso-consolidation of the Empire, there came expansion into the Southern colonies and Queensland and South Australia, then Browne was appointed Governor of New Zealand ..." George paused, as though troubled by something. "Anyway, the Empire enjoyed many years of stability under William and Adelaide , and there was a general increase in prosperity and well-being which any thinking man can only, er, applaud. This, I know, many have claimed as proving the essential positive value of the Oracle devices. I say, however, that every sword has two edges, and God may well, if it amuses him, choose to give us devices that give us as much misery as benefit, and judge us by our capacity to use them sensibly, like these infernal wire-lights and their poles going up all over the city. I ask you, how can a man observe the stars at night with all that light hazing the sky? And that electrical factory on the plain, belching smoke and covering the place with … black stuff … soot every time the wind blows the wrong way. I have complained, but does anybody listen?"

The Doctor filed away the information about the generating station for future reference, then tried to steer George away from what was clearly his pet hate. "But what is your opinion on current events, now that William and Adelaide have gone?"

George sipped his wine and considered the question blearily. "Well of course, the couple had two short-lived daughters so there was no heir. As he had no living legitimate issue, the Crown of the United Kingdom passed to Princess Victoria of Kent – and a fine woman she is too," he added hastily, with a quick glance about him as though concerned about who might be listening. "But … it must be admitted, there have been … tensions. And now ..." He frowned uncertainly.

The Doctor poured him some more wine. "Yes," he said encouragingly, "tell me what you think of things now."

At the head of an almost vertical shaft rising through packed earth and rubble, Abraham Deacon's pick suddenly struck a solid slab above his head. He pulled down his dust mask and stared hard. Below him, John Wallace froze in the act of passing another prop to George Mitchell. "Is it the floor?" he asked, voice quivering with excitement.

George grabbed the worklight and scrambled up the rungs of the shaft bracers untl he was level with Abraham, peering intently upward. "Yeah," he said after a moment, "I think it is. Get Bill up here – tell him we've made it!"

"... the division of the Colony into East and West is really a product of different histories and populations, but the requirements of the Oracle devices have served to exasperate matters. Take, er, aeroplanes, for example. Apparently, the fuel for them needs electrical power to process it. Now, there are devices the New Zealanders have for making this power directly from water turbines, but they work far more efficiently there than here. And the aeroplane engines are not steam powered, you know, oh no, but driven by a type of flammable oil, which they can find under the ocean beds. The con-consequence is that it is rumoured that they have made more and larger aeroplanes than we in Sydney. Well, there is one source of unease between our own Governor and New Zealand's right away. And then of course, then there was the business of Fitzroy's remains..."

"Of course. Do tell me what you thought of that."

William Kewley's prominent teeth fronted a triumphant smile. "I told you we'd get there anytime. I said they'd only filled in the core with light stuff, didn't I?"

"Well, that's modern building methods for you, isn't it?" sniffed George. "I remember my dad doing walls years ago. Good solid work that was."

"What, those blocks of asbestos by the river?" said John. "They had to be shored up last year."

"That wasn't his fault, that was subsidence-"

"Lads, lads!" cut in William. "Stop talking and fetch the jack. We've got a treasure vault to open."

"...so it was largely due Queen Victoria's mediation that the dispute was settled. She pointed out that, ah, just because Fitzroy died while in Sydney, his proper resting place was in Auckland, because he had family there, but the treasures he had accumulated whilst here should stay. Still, it had taken two … three years to resolve the matter, and his remains had already been interred in his tomb. Have you seen his tomb yet?"

"Just in passing," said the Doctor. "So what was finally decided?"

"Why, the new Governor of New Zealand, Sir George Grey is coming to collect Fitzroy's remains … Uh, what is the date? Oh, yes, he arrives tomorrow. There will be a special cricket match and various celebrations – you know, the usual entertainments to please the masses. Then, he'll take them back to Auckland."

The Doctor had suddenly tensed. "You mean they'll be opening the tomb?"

"What? No, no. The casket has already been removed. It's lying in state in, um, St. Andrews Temporary Cathedral I think it is."

The Doctor relaxed, looking relieved.

"Oh yes," continued George, "the tomb's all sealed up again now."

The silence of the treasure vault was broken by the grating of stone against stone and a regular squeak, squeak of metal, as if a heavy screw thread was being turned. Slowly, the edge of a thick floor slab rose upward by little jerks, and a crack of yellow electric light became visible. Wooden wedges were thrust into the widening gap from below, and slowly the slab was levered up far enough to allow a man to pass through. Hesitantly, William climbed out of the hole carrying a hand lantern and peered about him.

After a moment he gave a strangled gurgle of surprise. "By Jingo, we actually did it!" he spluttered, half to himself. "I never thought -"

"What's that, Bill?" came a voice from below.

"Nothing, nothing. We're here, aren't we? Right where I planned. Where else did you think we'd be?"

One by one, the robbers emerged from the shaft and looked about themselves in stunned silence.

"Cor – ain't it beautiful?" said Abraham in hushed tones. This seemed to break the spell.

"Beautiful my foot!" countered George. "This is money, lad, and don't you forget it. Don't go soft and sentimental on us now." But there was a notable tone of awe in his words.

Hesitantly, as though they were afraid it was all a mirage that might fade away at any moment, they started touching and caressing the priceless riches that surrounded them. They looked into one another's faces. Suddenly, they started breaking into helpless fits of half-choked laughter, and picking up the smaller ornaments and tossing them about, intoxicated by their success. All but Abraham, whose lumpy features were creased by a worried frown.

"Bill, Bill," he rumbled. "You sure it's safe? I mean, _He_'s not still in here, is he?"

William paused briefly in the middle of the impromptu jig he was dancing with John, whilst balancing the golden lid of an ointment jar on his head, to reassure him. "I told you already, they took him away a month ago to be shipped off to New Zealand. That's why we had to hold off the digging for a while, remember? There's nobody here now except -"

"WHO DISTURBS THE SLEEP OF FITZROY?"

The voice was eerily sepulchral. It echoed around the chamber, freezing the thieves into shocked rigidity, the dim lamplight casting their faces into rictuses of horror. In the centre of the chamber, what appeared to a high chair draped in a sheet stirred. A white veil fell away and the figure apeared to rise to its feet. Its eyes and mouth glowed a ghostly green, and patches of its skin seemed peculiarly mottled.

It took three paces towards them and raised an accusing hand.

The thieves' petrified tableau suddenly dissolved into a mad scramble for the raised slab, punctuated by oaths and cries of pure terror, as they all tried to squeeze through the narrow gap at once. Then they were half falling down the shaft with a clatter of boots and rattle of dislodged stones from its walls. At that moment, there was no other thought in their minds but to escape from whatever shade of the dead they had so unwisely disturbed. Later, John, who was the unwilling last member of that frantic group, swore that he heard terrible laughter floating down the shaft after them.

Naturally, he didn't recognize that it had an American accent.

Back in the treasure chamber, Peri pealed the strips of glow-bob off her face, grinning in satisfaction. Carefully, she pulled one of the longer wedges free of the slab and used it to knock the others and the jack-head away. The slab fell back into place with a satisfactory boom and thump, closing the shaft once more. She dragged a low table out of the pile of funereal goods and set it over the slab, then stacked several smaller pieces of furniture and assorted ornaments on top. If they came back again this way, she'd know it.

Returning to the centre of the chamber, she pulled the sheets off the throne chair and recovered the ancient gramophone horn and length of speaking tube which had been concealed beneath it, to return them to the TARDIS.

She paused. Something one of the thieves had said came back to her, and it didn't make sense. She picked up her torch and went over to the door beyond which the Doctor had said lay Fitzroy's actual mummy casket, and examined the rope seal tied across the handles. She pictured the similar type of seal they had cut away from the ante-chamber doors, and frowned. Quickly, she pulled off the rest of her disguise and returned it to the chest. She realized that her vestigial wings had definitely grown while she had been outside the protection of the TARDIS, and were chafing against the straps of her bra. Some sort of halter top would be more comfortable, she thought vaguely, more preoccupied with the puzzle she had just uncovered.

She hurried back to the TARDIS to see if she could interrupt the Doctor long enough to tell him about it. And to have something to eat, she added. Suddenly, she was feeling famished.

In the Liverpool Arms, the quantity of wine he had imbibed was finally taking its toll on George Hack, and he was starting to turn morose once more. "Pity, pity," he mumbled, 'about Thomas G...Gore Browne...Strong man. Could have been a great leader, but was stuck with going to...the East. Cursed place! Nobody listened to what he found, except me. _I _know what's there – and what it means..." He focused mournful, bloodshot eyes on the Doctor. "Should have saved your wishes of good health for yourself, Doctor."

"Oh, why is that?"

George gave a hollow, miserable laugh and hung his head over his cup again. "Because the world is coming to an end," he said blankly.

**Ok, so I know Anita doesn't really feature much in this chapter.**


End file.
